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Presented  to  the 
library  of  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 

hy 

The  Estate  of  the  late 

PROFESSOR  A.  S.  P.  WOODHOUSE 

Head  of  the 
Department  of  English 
University  College 
1944-1964  . 


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LAOCOON 


I 


Motto  by  Lessing. 


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Motto  by  Translator. 

“Macaulay  told  me  that  the  reading  of  this  little  book 
formed  an  epoch  in  his  mental  history,  and  that  he  learned 
more  from  it  than  he  had  ever  learned  elsewhere.” 

Lewes,  Life  of  Goethe , p.  57. 


LAOCOON 


BY 

GOTTHOLD  EPHRAIM  LESSING 


TRANSLATED  JV1TH  PREFACE  AND  NOTES 
BY  THE  LATE 

Rt.  Hon.  Sir  ROBERT  PHILLIMORE,  Bart. 


LONDON 

GEORGE  ROUTLEDGE  & SONS,  Limited 

NEW  YORK:  E.  P.  DUTTON  & CO. 


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6 Lf 

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TO 

Gbe  IRfgbt  Ibonourable  HCl.  £.  ©labstone 

IN  MEMORY 
OF  LONG  FRIENDSHIP 
AND  A COMMON  LOYE  OF  HOMER 
THESE  PAGES 

ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 
BY  THE  WRITER. 


Note.— This  edition  is  reprinted,  with  the  kind  consent  of 
Sir  Walter  Phillimore,  Bart.,  from  the  edition  published  by- 
Messrs  Macmillan  in  1874.  A few  misprints  have  been 
corrected,  and  the  notes  haye  been  transposed  to  the  end  of 
the  .volume.  The  publishers  take  this  opportunity  of  express- 
ing their  sincere  thanks  to  the  family  of  the  late  Sir  Robert 
Phillimore  for  permission  to  include  his  work  in  their  New 
Universal  Library. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Translator’s  Preface 1 

Introduction 55 

Chapter 

I  59 

II  64 

III  70 

IV  74 

V . . 85 

VI  92 

VII  98 

VIII  . . . . . . . .102 

IX  107 

X  Ill 

XI  114 

XII  119 

XIII  ‘ 124 

XIV  127 

XV  129 

XVI  131 


CONTENTS 


viii 

Chapter 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX  . 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 
XXVIII 
XXIX 

Notes 

Appendix 

Index 


PAGE 

139 

145 

152 

158 

165 

169 

175 

179 

183 

191 

199 

203 

206 

211 

290 

333 


PREFACE 


Section  I 

i 

1.  Birth  and  Education  of  Lessing  i;  2.  State  of  German  Literature 
when  Lessing  began  his  career  as  author;  3.  Lessing’s  Works 
generally;  4.  Winkelinann.  Lessing’s  Laocoon ; 5.  Ancient 
Versions  of  the  story  of  Laocoon  ; 6.  Notice  of  some  of  the  prin- 
cipal Modern  Authors  referred  to  by  Lessing ; 7.  Notice  of 
Modern  Authors  not  referred  to  by  Lessing,  but  who  wrote,  before 
the  publication  of  the  Laocoon , on  Poetry  and  Painting. 

1.  The  territory  which  once  formed  the  ancient 
| German  margraviate  of  Lusatia  was  divided  into 
Upper  and  Lower  Lusatia.  It  lay  between  the 
Elbe  and  the  Oder,  situated  to  the  north  of  Bohemia, 
to  the  south  of  Brandenburg,  and  to  the  west  of 
Silesia.  The  race  which  dwelt  on  the  northern  de- 
clivities of  the  Giant  mountains  (Riesen  Gebirge), 
which  separate  Silesia  from  Bohemia,  were  men 
of  robust  and  vigorous  minds ; and  early  in  the 
seventeenth  century  intellectual  life  began  to 
develop  itself  simultaneously  in  Upper  Lusatia 
and  Silesia. 

In  one  of  the  six  towns  of  Upper  Lusatia,  of 
which  Gorlitz  was  the  intellectual  centre,  Johann 
Gottfried  Lessing  and  his  wife,  Justine  Salome, 

J whose  maiden  name  was  Feller,  dwelt.  He  was 
- the  Lutheran  pastor  of  Kamenz  ; and  of  these 
| parents,  on  the  22nd  of  January,  1729,  Johann 

£ 1 The  principal  authorities  to  which  I have  had  recourse  for  the 

■•j  materials  of  this  sketch  are  : G.  E.  Lessing’s  Leben  und  Werke,  vol.  i, 

" by  Danzel ; vol.  ii,  by  Gurauer:  Leipzig,  1849.  G.  E.  Lessing’s  Sein. 
^ Leben  und  Seine  Werke , von  A.  Stahr : Berlin,  1859.  Goedeke’s 
4 Grundriss  zur  Geschichte  der  Deutschen  Dichtung , 1,  Oil,  § 221.  Ger- 
i vinus’s  Geschichte  der  Poetisclien  National-Literatur,  4,  318  : Leipzig, 
1843.  Germtin  Classics,  by  Dr  Bucliheim,  vol.  iii,  Clarendon  Press 
. ( Series:  Oxford,  1873.  Gostwick  and  Harrison’s  Outlines  of  German 
1S\  Literature , 201. 

al  B 


2 


LAOCOON 


Gotthold  Ephraim,  commonly  called  Gotthold 
Ephraim  Lessing,  the  writer  of  the  Laocoon , was 
bom.  He  died  at  Brunswick  in  1781. 

Logical  powers  of  a high  order,  an  intense  love 
of  study,  which  he  derived  from  his  father’s  ex- 
ample and  teaching,  restless  incessant  eagerness 
of  inquiry  into  every  subject  unchecked  by  any 
reverence  for  authority,  keen  susceptibilities,  con- 
stant literary  and  polemical  controversy,  unsettled 
religious  opinions,  very  straitened  circumstances, 
unquiet  habits,  a craving  for  excitement  which 
sometimes  led  him  to  the  gaming  table,  a passion 
for  that  kind  of  society — in  which  the  stream  of 
life  ran  rapidly,  though  turbidly — and  domestic 
sorrow,  combined  to  chequer  the  fifty -two  years  of 
his  very  distinguished  and  very  unhappy  life. 

His  public  education,  begun  at  Meissen  in  the 
year  1741,  was  continued  at  the  University  of 
Leipzig  in  1746,  where  he  renounced  the  studies 
and  career  of  a Theologian,  which  his  father  had 
wished  him  to  follow.  He  went  to  Berlin  in  1748. 
He  resided  for  some  time  at  Leipzig,  and  in  1760 
became  a member  of  the  Academy  there.  He  sup- 
ported himself  by  translating  foreign  works,  and 
taught  himself  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish.  He 
resided  at  Breslau  1760-1764,  where  he  was  official 
secretary  to  General  Tauenzien.  He  was  at  Berlin 
from  1765  to  1767.  He  lived  at  Hamburg,  where 
he  became  a journalist,  during  1767-1769.  He  was 
appointed  by  the  Duke  of  Brunswick  Privy  Coun- 
cillor and  Librarian  of  a great  Library  at  Wolfen- 
biittel ; there  he  took  up  his  abode  in  May  1770.  In 
this  library  he  discovered,  and  afterwards  published, 
a treatise  of  Berengarius  \ supposed  to  be  lost, 
respecting  the  Holy  Eucharist.  In  1775  he  accom- 
panied Prince  Leopold  of  Brunswick  in  his  journey 
to  Italy.  He  married,  in  April,  1776,  a widow,  Eva 
Konig,  who  died  in  1778.  He  appears  to  have  felt 
her  loss  very  deeply. 

i Gurauer,  2,  11 ; Goedeke,  611,  612,  663. 


PREFACE 


3 


2.  German  literature  is  one  of  the  youngest1  of 
the  European  family.  At  the  time  when  Lessing 
began  to  write  it  was  in  a very  meagre  condition. 

Leibnitz  and  Wolff  had  indeed,  in  their  different 
paths,  attained  deserved  literary  honours.  The 
former  had  been  dead  nearly  half  a century,  and 
wrote  his  great  works  in  a foreign  language.  The 
latter  was  too  ponderous  and  too  scholastic  to  be 
popular.  Neither  left  any  abiding  marks  upon  their 
native  language  or  literature 2. 

Gottsched  and  his  school  had  done  their  utmost 
to  lower  the  national  taste  to  the  level  of  a base 
imitation  of  French  literature  ; and  the  efforts  of 
the  Swiss,  Breitinger  and  Bodmer,  from  whom 
works  of  considerable  merit  appeared  simultane- 
ously at  Zurich  in  1740,  and  upon  whom  the  dawn  of 
a better  day  had  shone,  had  not  sufficient  power  to 
stem  the  tide.  Haller,  Hagedorn,  Kastners,  Rabe- 
ner,  Liscow,  keeping  aloof  from  the  contest  between 
Gottsched  and  the  Swiss,  contributed  something, 
but  not  much,  to  the  improvement  of  German 
literature.  Klopstock,  indeed,  vindicated  the  higher 
claims  of  poetry  to  be  the  fruit  of  genius — unat- 
tainable by  the  intellect  alone  or  mere  learned 
industry — and  to  be  far  above  the  frozen  mediocrity 
and  petty  conventional  decencies,  within  which 
Gottsched,  in  his  absence  of  all  the  susceptibility  of 
genius,  his  blind  admiration  for  the  French  imita- 
tion of  classical  antiquity,  would  have  confined  it. 
But  it  was  reserved  for  Lessing  thoroughly  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  German  mind,  and  imbue  it 
with  a true  philosophy,  which  included  the  romantic 
as  well  as  the  classical  school  within  the  domain  of 
poetry  ; from  which  Gottsched’s  narrow  and  unin- 
spired mind  would  have  excluded  Shakspere,  Milton, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso.  ‘ Lessing  schrieb  deutsch  ’,  says 

1 ‘Die  deutsche  Literatur  ist  eine  derjiingsten  unter  der  Europa* 
isclien’,  Schlegel,  Kritische  Schrtften , i,  1. 

2 Danzel,  1,  118;  De  Quincey,  vol.  xii,  282;  Gervlnus,  4,  63;, 
Goedeke,  560-1. 


4 


LAOCOON 


Gervinus.  He  was  himself  ‘ unaffectirt  deutsch 7 ; 
and  because  he  was  a genuine  German,  and  not  a 
French  or  Englishman  travestied,  he  drank  at  the 
pure  fountains  of  classical  lore,  unalloyed  by  their 
passage  through  a foreign  channel  \ 

3.  Of  the  many  literary  productions  of  Lessing, 
very  few  are  now  familiarly  known  out  of,  perhaps 
even  in,  Germany.  Three  at  least  of  his  plays  are 
still  read. 

Minna  Von  Barrihelm1  2,  finished  in  1765,  but  first 
published  in  its  corrected  form  in  1776,  praised  by 
Goethe  as  the  most  genuine  production  of  the  Seven 
Years7  War,  and  the  most  perfect  expression  of 
German  nationality,  and  as  having  been  a peace- 
maker between  Prussia  and  Saxony,  is  still  a great 
favourite  of  the  German  stage  ; and  the  very  pretty 
and  interesting  recent  edition  by  Dr  Buchheim3, 
with  English  notes,  a critical  analysis,  and  a sketch 
of  Lessing’s  life,  is  likely  to  restore  its  popularity 
to  the  libraries  at  least  of  England. 

Nathan  dev  Weise.  His  greatest  dramatic,  and, 
as  some  think,  his  most  philosophical  work,  founded 
on  the  Third  Novella  of  Boccaccio4,  still  lives  on 
account  of  its  intrinsic  merit.  It  was  no  doubt  a 
consequence  of  Lessing’s  friendship  with  the  Jew 
Mendelssohn.  It  has  been  supposed  to  have  been 
the  most  effective  sermon  of  the  day  on  the  Duty 
of  Toleration  in  matters  of  Beligion,  and  to  have 
generated  a much-needed  and  beneficial  change  in 
the  social  status  and  estimation  of  the  Jews  in 
Germany.  The  English  reader  may  be  interested 
in  comparing  with  it  the  affecting  legend  which 
ends  J.  Taylor’s  Liberty  of  Prophesying , and  Miss 
Edgeworth’s  novel  of  Harrington.  The  tragedy  of 
Emilia  Galotti  was  founded  on  the  story  of  Virginius , 

1 iv,  319. 

2 Minna  von  Barrihelm , oder  das  Soldatengliick,  Goedeke,  615. 

3 Published  in  the  Oxford  Clarendon  Press  Series,  1873. 

4 Novella  Terza.  Melchisedeck  giudeo  con  una  Novella  di  tre  anelle 
■cessa  un  gran  pericolo  dal  Saladino  apparecchiatogli. 


PEEFACE  6 

but  the  scene  of  the  drama  is  in  Italy,  and  the  time 
is  modern. 

If  ever  man  deserved  the  epithet,  in  which  the 
Germans  delight,  of  ‘ Polyhistor  ’,  Lessing  deserved 
it ; and  it  has  been  often  bestowed  upon  him  by  his 
countrymen.  The  ordinary,  indeed  the  educated, 
reader  of  the  Laocoon  is  astonished  at  the  way  in 
which  Lessing  takes  for  granted  his  acquaintance 
with  recondite  subjects.  Of  course  everybody 
knows,  he  seems  to  think,  about  the  ‘politische 
verse ? of  Constantinus  Manasses,  about  Skanopoeia, 
the  Ghezzi,  and  Crocylegmus.  I have  ventured  to 
write  some  notes  upon  these  and  other  references. 

It  was  at  Berlin  that  Lessing  contracted  habits 
of  intimate  and  lasting  friendship  with  Mendelssohn 
and  Nicolai.  Here,  in  conjunction  with  his  friends, 
he  wrote  literary  trifles  for  newspapers,  and  made 
translations  for  booksellers ; and  here  also  he  laid 
the  foundation  of  the  Letters  on  Modern  Literature \ 
This  was  the  first  publication  of  the  time  in  which 
a liberal,  unfettered  and  comprehensive  spirit,  aided 
by  a critical  faculty  of  high  order,  examined  into 
the  claims  and  merits  of  the  ancients,  and  did 
justice  to  the  literature  of  England.  In  the  admir- 
able criticisms  of  these  letters  the  shadow  of  his 
Laocoon , though  the  substance  did  not  appear  till 
long  afterwards,  was  cast  before. 

4.  We  are  now  brought  to  the  threshold  of  the 
work  on  which  the  literary  renown  of  Lessing  is 
mainly  and  deservedly  built.  It  is  the  work  of 
which  the  following  pages  contain  a translation,  his 
famous  Laocoon , which  first  saw  the  light  in  1766. 
Lessing,  besides  the  notes  which  he  appended  to  the 
first  and  completed  part,  had  prepared  many  notes 
for  a second  and  third  part.  They  are  unfortunately 
only  notes : but  not  a few  of  them  are  pregnant 
with  suggestion,  and  I have  not  shrunk  from  the 

1 Briefe  die  neueste  Literatur  betreffend.  The  papers  subscribed 
F 11  and  G are  by  Lessing,  the  others  for  the  most  part  by  Abbt, 
Mendelssohn,  and  Resewitz:  Goedeke,  615. 


6 LAOCOON 

labour  of  translating  the  latter  as  well  as  the 
former. 

Winkelmann 1 had  remarked  in  his  essays  on  the 
Imitation  of  the  Ancients  in  Painting  and  Statuary 2, 
that  the  principal  characteristics  of  Greek  sculpture 
were  simplicity  and  quiet  grandeur.  The  study  of 
the  Laocoon  led  Winkelmann  to  this  conclusion ; 
observing  that  natural  beauty  underlaid  the  beau- 
tiful forms  of  Greek  art,  he  thought  somewhat 
perhaps  in  the  spirit  of  a French  writer  of  tragedy, 
that  greatness  of  soul  was  intended  to  overcome  all 
expression  of  pain  in  Laocoon. 

Lessing  seems  to  have  felt  a reverence  for 
Winkelmann3,  which  he  felt  for  no  other  authority. 
This  was  partly  because  he  was  not  unaffected  by 
the  general  enthusiasm  in  Germany  for  him  at  this 
period.  Lessing  criticises  his  dogmas  with  studious 
gentleness  and  unusual  forbearance. 

The  authority  of  Winkelmann  upon  art  is  still 
considerable,  though  much  diminished.  Fuseli  was 
a violent  hater,  and  his  opinions  as  to  contempo- 
raries must  always  be  read  with  a recollection  of 
this  fact.  But  I am  not  aware  that  he  had  any 
animosity  to  the  memory  of  Winkelmann.  His 
opinion  of  him,  in  a sketch  of  Lessing’s  life,  is  not 
uninteresting.  Fuseli  says  : 

‘ About  the  middle  of  the  last  century  the  German 
critics,  established  at  Borne,  began  to  claim  the 

1 Assassinated  1768,  at  Trieste,  on  his  way  home  from  Italy,  where 
he  had  been  since  1758. 

2 Gedanken  ueber  die  Nachahmung  der  griechischen  Werke,  in  der 
Malerey  und  BildhauerJcunst.  Leipzig,  1756. 

3 Winkelmann  writes  to  a friend,  who  sent  him  extracts  from  the 
Laocoon,  that  he  had  bought  the  book  before  he  left  Dresden,  and 
adds  : — * Lessing  von  dem  ich  leider  nichts  gesehen  hatte  schreibt,  wie 
man  geschrieben  zu  haben  wiinschen  mochte’.  He  would  have 
written  to  him  if  he  had  not  heard  he  was  coming  to  Rome.  ‘ Es 
verdient  derselbe  also,  wo  man  sei  vertheidigen  kann,  eine  wiirdige 
Antwort.  Wie  es  riihmlich  ist  von  wiirdigen  Leuten  gelobt  zu  werden 
so  kann  es  auch  riihmlich  werden  ihrer  Beurtheilung  wiirdig  geachtet  zu 
seyn’.  The  report  at  Leipzig  that  Winkelmann  was  furious  against 
Laocoon  must  have  been  false.  See  G.  E.  Lessing’s  Leben,  etc.,  heraus- 
gegeben  von  R.  C.  Lessing. 


PREFACE 


7 


exclusive  privilege  of  teaching  the  art  (of  painting), 
and  to  form  a complete  system  of  antique  style. 
The  verdicts  of  Mengs  and  Winkelmann  became 
the  oracles  of  Antiquaries,  Dilettanti,  and  artists 
from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  utmost  north  of  Europe, 
have  been  detailed,  and  are  not  without  their 
influence  here.  Winkelmann  was  the  parasite  of 
the  fragments  that  fell  from  the  conversation  or 
the  tablets  of  Mengs,  a deep  scholar,  and  better 
fitted  to  comment  on  a classic  than  to  give  lessons 
on  art  and  style,  he  reasoned  himself  into  frigid 
reveries  and  Platonic  dreams  on  beauty.  As  far 
as  the  taste  or  the  instructions  of  his  tutor  directed 
him,  he  is  right,  whenever  they  are,  and  between  his 
own  learning  and  the  tuition  of  the  other,  his 
history  of  art  delivers  a specious  system  and  a 
prodigious  number  of  useful  observations.  He  has 
not,  however,  in  his  regulation  of  epochs,  discrim- 
inated styles  and  masters  with  the  precision, 
attention,  and  acumen,  which,  from  the  advantages 
of  his  situation  and  habits,  might  have  been  ex- 
pected ; and  disappoints  us  as  often  by  meagreness, 
neglect,  and  confusion,  as  he  offends  by  laboured 
ancl  inflated  rhapsodies  on  the  most  celebrated 
monuments  of  Art.  To  him  Germany  owes  the 
shackles  of  her  artists,  and  the  narrow  limits  of 
their  aim  ; from  him  they  have  learnt  to  substitute 
the  means  for  the  end,  and  by  a hopeless  chase  after 
what  they  call  beauty,  to  lose  what  alone  can  make 
beauty  interesting — expression  and  mind.  The 
works  of  Mengs  himself  are  no  doubt  full  of  the 
most  useful  information,  deep  observation,  and 
often  consummate  criticism.  He  has  traced  and 
distinguished  the  principles  of  the  moderns  from 
those  of  the  ancients;  and  in  his  comparative  view 
of  the  design,  colour,  composition,  and  expression 
of  Raffaello,  Correggio,  and  Tiziano,  with  luminous 
perspicuity  and  deep  precision,  pointed  out  the 
prerogative  or  inferiority  of  each.  As  an  artist  he 
is  an  instance  of  what  perseverance,  study,  expe~ 


8 


LAOCOON 


rience,  and  encouragement  can  achieve  to  supply 
the  place  of  genius M. 

I have  mentioned  the  extraordinary  reverence  of 
Lessing  for  Winkelmann  ; but  Lessing,  nourished 
upon  Homer  and  Sophocles,  could  not  bring  himself 
to  accept  the  dictum  of  Winkelmann  about  Laocoon. 
Lessing,  on  the  contrary,  maintains  that  the  Greeks 
would  have  considered  the  scream  of  bodily  anguish 
quite  compatible  with  greatness  of  soul — a pro- 
position which  in  Germany  was  fruitful  in  results 
as  to  the  theory  of  tragedy,  and  which  overcame 
the  angry  and  resolute  opposition  of  Herder,  and 
won  the  approbation  of  Schiller  and  indeed  of 
Goethe.  The  first  and  highest  law  of  ancient  art 
Lessing  maintained  was  the  production  of  Beauty  ; 
this  Art  therefore  avoided  all  caricature,  all  ex- 
tremes of  passion  which  bordered  on  what  was 
hideous.  The  true  and  proper  end  of  art  is  that 
which  she  ever  works  out  for  herself  without  the 
aid  of  any  other  art.  That  end  is,  in  Plastic  Art, 
corporeal  beauty,  to  be  found  only  in  men,  and  in 
them  only  by  virtue  of  an  ideal 2. 

Winkelmann3  had  said,  ‘In  the  anguish  and 
suffering  of  the  Laocoon,  which  is  shown  in  every 
muscle  and  nerve,  we  see  the  tried  spirit  of  a great 
man,  who  wrestles  with  torment  and  seeks  to  sup- 
press and  confine  within  itself  the  outbreak  of 
sensibility.  He  does  not  burst  forth  into  a loud 
cry  as  Virgil  describes  him  to  us,  but  only  sad  and 
still  sighs  come  from  him,  etc ’ 4. 

This  comparison  stimulated  the  critical  faculty  of 
Lessing,  and  together  with  a perusal  of  the  works 

1 Introduction  to  Fuseli's  Life  and  Writings , vol.  ii,  p.  13. 

2 See  Ch.  XX,  infra , and  compare  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  Works,  vol. 
ii,  73,  13th  Discourse. 

3 For  references  by  Winkelmann  to  the  Laocoon,  see  i,  31,  65,  216, 
251,  255,  382 ; ii,  203-206,  208,  209,  228  ; iii,  84,  320  ; iv,  61,  105,  148, 
160,  173,  267,  370,  372,  381,  388,  418,  419;  v,  49,  105,  119,  159,  221, 
250,  417  ; vi,  1,  101,  131,  263 ; vii,  97,  98,  187,  269,  291.  Ed.  Dresden, 
1817. 

4 Kunst  der  Zeicknung  unter  den  Griechen,  4 Kap.  § 34  ; 7 Band,  p. 
98,  ed.  1817. 


PEEFACE 


9 


of  Spence  and  Caylus,  led  to  his  profound  examin- 
ation of  the  then  generally  accepted  thesis  which 
had  been  current  even  before  the  time  of  Plutarch 
and  Pliny ; namely,  that  Poetry  was  a speaking 
Picture,  and  Painting  a dumb  Poem.  I will  here  / 
cite  at  length  the  passage  in  Plutarch  which  refers 
to  this  adage  and  also  contains  the  motto  which 
Lessing  adopted,  though  he  did  not  quite  understand 
it,  for  his  Laocoon  : 

Tovto  rb  epyov  E vcppavoop  eypa\f/ey  Kal  Trapeffnv  bpav  ev 
eiKbvi  rr/s  fiax^s  ro  ovyypaiifia  Kal  r^v  avrepeicriv  aAKrjs  Kal 
dujao v Kal  Trvev/xaros  ye/xovrav.  aAA’  ovk  ttv  ol/xai  r)]V  (ooypa- 
(pov  Kp'iariv  TTpoaOelrire  irpbs  rov  crrparrjybv , ovbJ  avdaxoL(J®€ 
rcbv  7r porL/xcovroov  rbv  TTivaKa  rov  rporraiou , Kal  rb  ixiixpjxa  rrjs 
aArjOelas.  ttA^jv  6 HU/JLCovibris,  rfyv  jxev  £coy  p acpiav,  ttolt}- 
ct  i v cr  icon  bo  a av  n p o r ay  o pe  v cov,  rr]V  be  ttoltiglv , 
(coypacpiav  AaAovcrav.  &s  yap  oi  ^coypacpoi  tt  payees  bos 
yivofjLevas  beiKvvovai,  ravras  oi  A0704  yeyevrpxevas  biriyovvrat 
Kal  ruyypacpovcriv'  el  be  oi  juev  xpc*>/jLacrL  K0^  <TX^PacrLVi  0i' 
ovb/xaert  Kal  Ae£ecr4  ravra  brjAovaiv,  vA  rj  Kal  rpbnois 
pu/uiT]  a eco  s b iacpe  pover  C reAos  5’  d/ucporepois  ev  vnbKeirai, 

Kal  rcbv  iaropiKoov  Kpanaros  6 r)jv  bi^yrjnv  ebrnep  ypaep^v 
Trader t Kal  nporconois  eibioAonoidiaas1. 

The  dictum  of  Simonides,  whether  correct  or  in- 
correct, was  intended  to  be  construed  and  applied 

1 Plutarch,  Comm.  Bellone  an  Pace  clariores  fuerint  Athenienses , v.  7, 
p.  366,  ed.  Reiske  : ‘ This  action  Euphranor  painted,  and  you  can  see  in 
similitude  the  story  of  the  battle,  and  the  contest  teeming  with  might, 
courage,  and  spirit ; hut  you  would  not,  I think,  make  comparison  of 
the  painter  and  the  general,  nor  endure  those  who  would  honour  the 
picture  above  the  trophy,  and  the  imitation  above  the  reality.  Yet 
Simonides  addressed  painting  as  silent  poetry , and  poetry  as  speaking 
painting.  For  those  actions  which  painters  pourtray  as  taking  place, 
are,  when  they  have  taken  place,  recounted  and  described  by  words. 
But  if  the  one  set  present  these  actions  by  colours  and  figures,  and  the 
other  by  names  and  phrases,  they  differ  in  the  material  and  in  the  modes 
of  their  imitation.  Both,  however,  have  one  object,  and  the  best  his- 
torian is  he  who,  in  the  passions  and  persons  of  his  story,  has  produced 
a series  of  images  as  if  they  were  painted  in  a picture’.  *YAp  kcu  rpo nois 
/tuju.T7<reu>s  8ia<f>epov<ri.  ‘ They  differ  in  the  material  and  m the  modes 
of  their  expression  This  is  the  passage  which  I mentioned  as  having 
been  chosen  by  Lessing  for  the  motto  of  his  work,  and  though,  as  will 
have  been  seen,  he  slightly  misconstrued  it,  a better  could  not  have 
been  chosen. 


10 


LAOCOON 


with  the  recollection  that  the  variety  of  the  means 
employed  by  the  poet  and  the  painter  was  a matter 
of  common  everyday  knowledge.  The  author  of  the 
dictum,  moreover,  knew  that  it  would  receive  modi- 
fication in  practice  from  the  right  feeling  of  the 
artist.  It  has  been  said  4 to  be  the  privilege  of  the 
ancients  in  nothing  to  do  too  much  or  too  little  ’ \ 

5.  The  fable  of  Laocoon  has  been  variously  related 
by  writers  before  and  after  the  time  of  Virgil.  As 
to  the  last,  according  to  the  version  of  Quintus 
Calaber2,  when  Laocoon  struck  the  wooden  horse 
with  his  spear  an  earthquake  was  caused  by  Minerva 
which  stupefied  him  with  terror.  Nevertheless, 
when  the  horse  was  moved  into  the  city  he  was 
urgent  that  it  should  be  burnt  : and  then  Minerva 
invoked  two  serpents  from  the  island  of  Calydna, 
which  devoured  the  children  of  Laocoon  in  vain 
stretching  forth  their  hands  to  him  for  succour. 
Then  the  serpents  rush  to  the  temple  of  Minerva 
and  disappear  beneath  the  earth,  and  Laocoon  is 
smitten  with  blindness.  Hyginus,  the  next  writer 
on  the  subject  after  Virgil,  speaks  of  the  children 
being  slain  with  their  father,  and  makes  Laocoon 
the  priest  of  Neptune  and  not  of  Apollo. 

As  to  the  authors  before  the  time  of  Virgil  who 
wrote  about  Laocoon,  they  were  Lysimachus,  Lyco- 
phron,  and  a once  very  celebrated  poet,  Euphorion, 
of  whom  we  know  from  Quintilian3  that  Virgil  had 
a very  high  opinion.  These  were  writers  of  the 
Alexandrian  School,,  to  whom  those  of  the  Augustan 
School,  and  especially  Virgil,  seem  to  have  been 
much  indebted4.  Laocoon  was  also  probably  the 
theme  of  more  than  one  Greek  writer.  It  was  the 
subject,  we  know,  of  a lost  tragedy  of  Sophocles5. 

The  so-called  Cyclic  Poets  were,  according  to 
Heyne6,  (to  whom  I am  chiefly  indebted  for  these 
observations),  the  real  fountain  of  these  different 


i Gurauer,  11,  13. 

3 x,  1,  36. 

5 Dionys.  Halicar.  i,  48. 


2 xii,  388-409. 

4 Cicero,  Tusc.  Q.  iii,  19. 

6 Excurs.  v,  vi,  ad  lib.  ii  Virgil. 


PEEFACE 


11 


versions,  and  above  all  Leschis,  6 quem  utique 
Quintus  expressisse  visus  est  \ 

Cardinal  Sadolet’s  comparatively  modern  poem 
on  the  Laocoon  is,  as  will  be  seen,  given  at  length 
by  Lessing,  who  highly  esteemed  it,  in  a note  to  one 
of  the  sections  of  this  work  \ 

Lessing  made  use  of  the  fable  of  Laocoon  as  fur- 
nishing the  occasion  for  expressing  certain  principles 
of  criticism  discriminating  between  the  arts  of 
Poetry  and  Painting.  He  did  not  intend — as  he 
more  than  once,  I think,  says — to  write  a philo- 
sophical treatise,  modo  et  forma , on  art.  One  of  his 
biographers  has  observed  that  the  pursuit  of  Truth 
was  more  agreeable  to  him  than  the  capture  of  the 
object  of  his  pursuit.  He  delighted  in  the  chase 
itself  and  the  opportunities  which  it  afforded  for 
the  exercise  of  his  vigorous  sense,  great  erudition, 
and  masculine  understanding. 

6.  I have  written  in  the  Appendix  a few  concise 
historical  notes  to  each  Chapter,  illustrative  of  the 
authors  mentioned  by  Lessing,  and  have  added  a few 
additional  references.  To  many  readers  the  inform- 
ation thus  supplied  will  probably  be  unnecessary, 
but  there  are  some,  to  whom  I hope  it  will  not  be 
disagreeable,  and  to  both  classes  it  may  be  perhaps 
convenient. 

There  are,  however,  two  or  three  authors  whom 
Lessing,  for  purposes  of  explanation  or  censure,  very 
frequently  mentions : and  there  are  others  whom 
one  is  surprised  that  he  does  not  mention.  I will 
say  a word  on  both  these  topics. 

As  to  the  former,  the  first  author  in  date  is 
Dryden. 

With  Dry  den’s  Parallel  of  Poetry  and  Painting  (an 
essay  prefixed  in  1695  to  Du  Fresnoy’s  Latin  poem 
De  Arte  Graphica)  Lessing  seems  to  have  been  well 
acquainted.  The  essay,  though  it  bears  marks  of 
his  unrivalled  style,  has  not  contributed  much  to 
the  fame  of  Dryden.  It  was  truly  observed,  that 

1 See  Ch.  VI,  Note  3,  infra . 


12 


LAOCOON 


‘ wanting  a competent  knowledge  of  painting,  he 
suffered  himself  to  he  misled  by  an  unskilful  guide  ’. 
As  to  the  general  subject,  Dry  den  relied  greatly  on 
the  authority  of  Bellori,to  whom  Lessing  also  refers1. 
Dryden  says  in  one  place2  ‘that  the  principal  end 
of  Painting  is  to  please,  of  Poetry  to  instruct 9 ; and 
in  another  place 3,  4 that  one  main  end  of  Poetry  and 
Painting  is  to  please’.  . . ‘The  imitation  of  Nature 
is,  therefore,  justly  constituted  as  the  general,  indeed 
the  only,  rule  of  pleasing  both  in  Poetry  and  Paint- 
ing ’ 4.  Then  he  refers  to  Aristotle’s  opinion,  which 
is  considered  fully  hereafter  in  the  notes  to  the 
Laocoon. 

The  poem  of  Du  Fresnoy  was  translated  into 
English  verse  by  Mason  in  1782,  and  was  published, 
with  valuable  notes,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and 
is  to  be  found  in  the  last  edition  of  his  Works. 

Du  Fresnoy  begins  with  a fragment  from  Horace’s 
Ars  Poetica , ‘Ut  Pictura  Poesis  erit,s.  Mason  cites 
in  a note  the  adage  of  Simonides  from  Plutarch,  and 
says  ‘There  is  a Latin  line  somewhere  to  the 
same  purpose,  but  I know  not  whether  ancient  or 
modern,  “Poesis  est  Pictura  loquens,  mutum  Pictura 
Poem  a” 

Francis  Junius  was  born  at  Heidelberg  in  or  about 
1589.  A man  of  vast  classical  erudition,  and  a great 
traveller,  a friend  of  Grotius,  Salmasius,  Vossius  (his 
brother-in-law),  and  Archbishop  Usher. 

In  1620  he  came  to  England,  and  was  received 
into  the  household  of  the  Earl  of  Arundel  and  Surrey. 
Here  he  wrote  his  folio  volume,  De  Pictura  Veterum , 
on  the  Art  of  Painting  among  the  Ancients,  which 
was  first  published  in  Holland.  He  died  at  Windsor 
in  1678,  and  in  his  eighty-eighthor  eighty-ninth  year. 
He  was  buried  at  Windsor;  and  the  University  of 
Oxford,  to  whom  he  bequeathed  his  manuscript  and 
books  out  of  gratitude,  caused  a Latin  inscription  to 
be  placed  over  his  tomb.  In  it  he  is  described  as 

1 Works,  iv,  311,  ed.  Malone.  2 See  Ch.  IT,  Note  17,  infra . 

3 Works,  iv,  318.  4 lb.  322  5 v,  361. 


PREFACE 


13 


pene  nonagenarius , and  as  one  c qui  per  omnem  aeta- 
tem  sine  querela  aut  injuria  cujusquam  musis  tan- 
tum  et  sibi  vacavit  \ The  edition  which  I have  used 
was  published  at  Rotterdam  1694.  Lessing  blames 
Spence  for  relying  on  the  accuracy  of  J unius’s  cita- 
tions without  verification.  They  were  often  very 
incorrect  \ 

Joseph  Spence1 2  was  for  ten  years  Professor  of 
Poetry  at  Oxford.  He  spent  five  years  on  the 
Continent,  chiefly  at  Florence  and  Rome.  He 
published  Dialogues  in  ten  books,  in  royal  folio,  in 
1747.  His  work  was  entitled,  P oly metis ; or , an 
Inquiry  concerning  the  Agreement  between  the  Works  of 
the  Pom, an  Poets  and  the  Remains  of  the  Ancient  Artists, 
being  an  attempt  to  illustrate  them  mutually  from  one 
another  3. 

‘When  you  look  on  the  old  pictures’  (Spence  says, 
p.  3)  ‘ or  sculptures,  you  look  on  the  works  of  men 
who  thought  much  in  the  same  train  with  the  old 
poets.  There  was  generally  the  greatest  union  in 
their  designs ; and  when  they  are  engaged  on  the 
same  subject  they  must  be  the  best  explainers  of 
one  another.  As  we  lie  so  far  north  from  this  last 
great  seat  of  Empire,  we  are  placed  out  of  the  reach 
of  consulting  these  finer  remains  of  antiquity  so 
much  and  so  frequently  as  one  could  wish.  The 
only  way  of  supplying  this  defect  to  any  degree 
among  us  is  by  copies,  prints,  and  drawings  ’ . 

(P.  285) : ‘ I think,  therefore,  there  can  be  no  room 
to  doubt  that  some  of  the  best  comments  we  could 
have  on  the  ancient  poets,  might  be  drawn  from  the 
works  of  the  artists  who  were  their  contemporaries  ; 
and  whose  remains  often  present  to  our  eyes  the 
very  things  which  the  others  have  delivered  down 
to  us  only  in  words  ’. 

1 See  Ch.  XXIX,  infra.  2 See  Ch.  VII,  Note  2. 

3 It  contains  forty-one  plates,  seventeen  ‘ ornamental  pieces  at  the 
close  of  the  Dialogues’,  three  figures  (disposed  in  the  manner  of  an 
ancient  relievo)  in  the  frontispiece  : the  Goddess  of  Painting,  the  God 

of  Poetry,  and  the  Genius  of  Sculpture,  from  antiques. 


14 


LAOCOON 


This  author  is  continually  referred  to  in  the 
Laocoon.  He  and  Caylus  are  the  subject  of  some  of 
Lessing’s  severest  and  justest  criticisms. 

J onathan  Richardson  published  Works  on  Painting 
in  1725.  Discourses  on  1.  The  Theory  of  Painting  ; 
2.  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Criticism,  so  far  as  it  relates 
to  Painting ; 3.  The  Science  of  a Connoisseur.  A 
new  edition  of  the  Works  was  prepared  by  his  son, 
and  dedicated  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  1773. 

In  1728  there  was  published  in  Amsterdam,  in 
three  volumes,  Traite  de  la  Peinture  et  de  la  Sculpture , 
and  this  is  the  work  to  which  Lessing  constantly 
refers.  ‘ It  is  ’ (Pilkington  remarks,  in  his  Dictionary 
of  Painters)  ‘ a curious  circumstance  that  a man  who 
could  write  so  well  upon  the  art  should  so  ill  apply 
to  his  own  practice  the  rules  he  gave  to  others.  Full 
of  theory,  profound  in  reflections,  and  possessed  of 
a numerous  collection  of  drawings,  he  appears  not 
to  have  possessed  the  smallest  invention  as  applic- 
able to  the  Painter’s  art,  and  drew  nothing  well 
below  the  head  ’ 1. 

Hogarth  (born  1698,  died  1764)  published  The 
Analysis  of  Beauty , written  with  a view  of  fixing  the 
fluctuating  ideas  of  Taste , in  1753.  The  object  of  the 
work  was  to  show  that  the  curve  was  the  natural 
line  of  beauty.  But  Hogarth  had  no  classical  know- 
ledge, and  indeed  was,  generally  speaking,  very 
uneducated.  In  his  chap,  iii,  ‘ Of  Simplicity  or 
Distinctness’,  he  says  ‘The  authors’  (for  there  were 
three  concerned  in  the  work)  ‘of  as  fine  a group  of 
figures  in  sculpture  as  ever  was  made  either  by 
ancients  or  moderns  ’ (I  mean  Laocoon  and  his  two 
sons)  ‘ chose  to  be  guilty  of  making  the  sons  half 
the  father’s  size,  though  they  have  every  mark  of 
being  designed  for  men,  rather  than  not  bring  their 
composition  within  the  boundary  of  a pyramid  ’. 

Lessing  does  not  refer  to  this  passage,  and  very 
possibly  it  escaped  his  notice.  Sir  J.  Reynolds 


1 See  Ch.  XI,  Note  1,  infra . 


PREFACE 


15 


says 1 : 1 It  naturally  occurs  to  oppose  the  sensible 
conduct  of  Gainsborough,  in  this  respect,  to  that  of 
our  late  excellent  Hogarth,  who,  with  all  his  extra- 
ordinary talents,  was  not  blessed  with  this  knowledge 
of  his  own  deficiency  ; or  of  the  bounds  which  were 
set  to  the  extent  of  his  own  powers.  After  this 
admirable  artist  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  an  active,  busy,  and,  we  may  add,  successful 
attention  to  the  ridicule  of  life ; after  he  had 
invented  a new  species  of  dramatic  painting,  in 
which  probably  he  will  never  be  equalled,  and  had 
stored  his  mind  with  infinite  materials  to  explain 
and  illustrate  the  domestic  and  familiar  scenes  of 
common  life,  which  were  generally,  and  ought  to 
have  been  always,  the  subject  of  his  pencil,  he  very 
imprudently,  or  rather  presumptuously,  attempted 
the  great  historical  style,  for  which  his  previous 
habits  had  by  no  means  prepared  him  ; he  was 
indeed  so  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  principles 
of  this  style,  that  he  was  not  even  aware  that  any 
artificial  preparation  was  at  all  necessary.  It  is  to 
be  regretted  that  any  part  of  the  life  of  such  a 
genius  should  be  fruitlessly  employed.  Let  his 
failure  teach  us  not  to  indulge  ourselves  in  the  vain 
imagination,  that  by  a momentary  resolution  we 
can  give  either  dexterity  to  the  hand,  or  a new  habit 
to  the  mind  \ 

7.  And  now  let  me  say  a word  as  to  authors  whom 
Lessing  does  not  mention,  but  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted. 

The  Abbe  Du  Bos  wrote  his  Reflexions  critiques  sur 
la  Poesie  et  la  Peinture  in  1719.  In  this  work  he 
includes,  as  will  be  presently  noticed,  several 
ingenious  chapters  on  music,  and  the  relation  of 
that  art  to  poetry  and  painting.  He  died  at  Paris 
in  1742.  His  work  was  very  highly  esteemed  by 
Voltaire  ; and  perhaps  the  tone  and  spirit  of  it  bore 
a closer  affinity  to  the  Laocoon  than  the  work  of  any 


l Vol.  ii,  Disc.  14.  88. 


16 


LAOCOON 


other  predecessor  of  Lessing.  His  style  is  per- 
spicuous and  agreeable ; his  criticisms  generally 
luminous.  Lessing  was  well  acquainted  with  him, 
and  certainly  made  use  of  him 1.  It  is  strange  that 
no  reference  should  be  made  to  him  in  the  Laocoon. 
It  is  true  that  Lessing  differed  from  him  as  to  the 
principle  of  his  comparison  of  poetry  and  painting, 
Du  Bos  adopting  for  his  motto  ‘ Ut  Pictura  Poesis’. 
But  Du  Bos  laid  down  many  of  the  sound  principles 
which  Lessing  relied  upon.  Above  all  he  held  that 
Poetry  could  attain  to  the  sublime,  which  Painting 
could  not  reach,  because  she  was  limited  to  the 
representation  of  one  moment  of  a continuing 
action. 

Daniel  Webb  published,  among  other  works,  An 
Enquiry  into  the  Beauties  of  Painting , and  into  the 
Merits  of  the  most  celebrated  Painters , ancient  and 
modern , in  1760 2 ; and  Observations  on  the  Corre- 
spondences between  Poetry  and  Music,  in  1769 3 ; and 
Remarks  on  the  Beauties  of  Poetry,  in  1762  4. 

He  sought  to  establish  the  position  that  poetry 
was  an  union  of  powers  of  music  and  painting.  He 
considered  Shakspere  to  be  as  great  a painter  as 
Titian.  Effective  colouring  ought  in  his  opinion  to 
be  the  great  object  of  the  painter. 

Webb  is  said  to  have  derived  all  his  information 
on  sesthetical  subjects  from  Mengs,  with  whom  he 
lived  on  terms  of  intimacy  for  some  years.  If  this 
were  so,  he  never  acknowledged  the  obligation.  In 
his  turn,  however,  £suos  patitur  manes  for  I cannot 
find  that  Lessing  ever  refers  to  Webb,  though  his 
obligation,  if  any,  wTas  certainly  much  lighter  : yet 
sometimes  there  is  a remarkable  correspondence 
in  their  ideas.  Lessing  was  infinitely  his  superior, 
however,  in  every  literary  respect. 

Harris  (born  1709,  died  1780)  first  published  his 
treatises,  Concerning  Art,  Music,  Painting , and  Poetry, 
in  1765,  a year  before  the  publication  of  the  Laocoon. 

i Gurauer,  ii,  15.  2 Ed.  London,  1787. 

3 lb.  1769.  4 lb.  1762. 


PREFACE 


17 


These  treatises  have  great  merit ; they  are  not 
referred  to  by  Lessing,  who,  but  for  his  extraordinary 
erudition,  might  be  presumed  not  to  have  been 
acquainted  with  them.  I have  introduced  several 
extracts  from  them  in  the  notes 1. 


Section  II 

1.  Effect  of  the  Laocoon  in  Germany  ; 2.  On  the  Continent  of  Europe. 

1.  The  effect  of  the  Laocoon  in  Germany  was  marvel- 
lous ; while  on  the  Continent  of  Europe  it  was  very 
great.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  what  Adam 
Smith  did,  in  the  domain  of  Political  Economy,  by 
his  Wealth  of  Nations , Lessing  did,  in  the  domain  of 
Art  and  Criticism,  by  this  memorable  treatise.  It 
created  a new  era  in  sesthetic2  culture  and  litera- 
ture. It  has  leavened  not  only  the  teaching  and 
the  practice  of  Professors  of  Art  and  practical 
Artists,  but,  like  other  great  works,  it  has  purified 
the  taste,  and  informed  the  mind  of  many,  who 
have  benefited  by  the  streams  flowing  in  various 
channels  from  a fountain  head  which  they  have 
never  visited. 

After  the  publication  of  the  Laocoon  a different 
atmosphere,  so  to  speak,  of  sesthetic  taste  and  criti- 

1 See  Oh.  II,  Note  18,  and  Ch.  VI,  Note  2,  infra. 

2 ‘In  English,  this  expression,  feeling,  like  all  others  of  a psycho- 
logical application,  was  primarily  of  a purely  physical  relation,  being 
originally  employed  to  denote  the  sensations  we  experience  through 
the  sense  of  touch,  and  in  this  meaning  it  still  continues  to  be  em- 
ployed. From  this,  its  original  relation  to  matter  and  the  corporeal 
sensibility,  it  came,  by  a very  natural  analogy,  to  express  our  con- 
scious states  of  mind  in  general,  but  particularly  in  relation  to  the 
qualities  of  pleasure  and  pain,  by  which  they  are  characterised.  Such 
is  the  fortune  of  the  term  in  English  ; and  precisely  similar  is  that  of 
the  cognate  term,  Gefiihl,  in  German.  The  same,  at  least  a similar, 
history  might  be  given  of  the  Greek  term  cuo-fojcris,  and  of  the  Latin 
sensus,  sensatio,  with  their  immediate  and  mediate  derivatives  in  the 
different  Romaic  dialects  of  modern  Europe, — the  Italian,  Spanish, 
French,  and  English  dialects’.  Sir  W.  Hamilton’s  Lectures  on  Meta- 
physics,, Lecture  xli.  See  also  Lecture  xlvi. 

C 


18 


LAOCOON 


cism  prevailed,  and  was  insensibly  imbibed  by  pos- 
terity, first  in  Germany,  then  on  the  Continent,  and 
lastly  in  England. 

The  similarity  and  harmony  of  the  two  arts, 
Poetry  and  Painting,  had  been  frequently  and 
copiously  discussed ; but  Lessing  reversed  the  medal, 
and  investigated  the  inherent  dissimilarity,  and 
showed  that  this  dissimilarity  was  founded  upon 
laws  peculiar  to  each  art,  and  which  often  com- 
pelled the  one  to  tread  a different  path  from  the 
other. 

Lessing  perceived  the  important  relation  of  the 
category  of  time  to  painting  and  the  plastic  art 
generally ; he  saw  that  the  artist  had  only  a moment 
in  which  to  tell  his  tale,  and  he  maintained  that  the 
right  choice  of  this  moment  was  everything  (a 
remark  which  he  often  repeated)  ; that  it  should 
be  one  which  was  most  fruitful  or  pregnant  with 
suggestion,  which  allowed  the  freest  scope  to  the 
imagination  of  the  spectator,  who  the  more  he 
looked  at  what  was  represented,  the  more  he  ought 
to  exercise  thought.  Therefore  plastic  art  ought 
not  to  exhibit  the  last  and  extremest  thing,  which 
left  no  room  for  the  working  of  the  imagination. 

Lessing  held  that  the  artist  ought  not  to  express 
what  was  absolutely  momentary  and  transitory, 
and  the  ancient  artist  never  did  this.  It  has  been 
observed  that  the  idea  in  Lessing’s  mind  was  right, 
but  perhaps  not  quite  correctly  formulated  in  lan- 
guage, inasmuch  as  what  is  to  be  avoided  by  the 
artist  is  not  whatever  is  absolutely  momentary,  but 
that  of  which  the  inspection  could  only  be  tolerated 
for  a moment,  because  it  introduced  what  was 
hideous.  The  painter  employs  figures  and  colours 
in  space,  the  poet  articulate  sounds  in  time.  Lessing 
having  considered  the  laws  of  painting  or  plastic 
art  generally,  then  considered  those  of  poetry  ; his 
main  position  is  that  the  law  respecting  the  category 
of  time,  applicable  to  painting,  was  inapplicable  to 
poetry. 


PEEFACE 


19 


It  was  competent  to  the  poet,  by  previous  recital, 
to  prepare  the  mind  of  his  audience  for  an  effect,  or 
by  subsequent  recital  to  soften  the  consequences  of 
the  effect : and  in  the  Laocoon  of  the  poet  who  could 
employ  successive  action  in  aid  of  his  mental  pic- 
tures, there  was  a much  wider  scope  of  representation 
than  in  the  Laocoon  of  the  artist. 

Virgil  might  represent  his  Laocoon  clothed, 
because  in  poetry  clothing  is  no  clothing,  conceal- 
ing nothing.  The  artist  could  not  even  venture  to 
bind  the  fillet  of  the  priest  on  the  brow  of  the 
Laocoon,  because  he  would  have  concealed  the  brow, 
which  is  the  seat  of  expression. 

The  best  poetical  picture  therefore  possesses  fea- 
tures of  which  the  artist  can  make  no  use  ; but  the 
converse  is  not  true.  Every  trait  of  the  artist’s 
work  may  be  made  use  of  by  the  poet,  and  Lessing 
thought  it  far  more  probable  that  the  artist  had 
present  to  his  mind  the  Laocoon  of  the  poet,  than 
that  the  poet  had  present  to  his  mind  the  Laocoon 
of  the  artist.  Lessing  is  led  by  the  development  of 
his  theory  on  this  subject  to  condemn  Count  Caylus 
and  the  French  essayists  on  art,  who  would  compel 
the  painter  to  adopt  and  paint  the  pictures  in 
Homer,  and  the  English  writers,  especially  Spence, 
who  thought  that  the  ancient  poets  could  be  ex- 
plained by  ancient  works  of  art,  such  as  statues 
and  models,  without  exercising  any  discrimination 
between  the  different  nature  of  the  two  arts,  or  ob- 
serving the  far  wider  scope  and  province  of  poetry. 

Finally,  Lessing  arrives  at  the  goal  which  he  had 
proposed  to  himself,  and  establishes  the  supremacy 
of  poetry  over  all  other  arts.  At  the  same  time  he 
revives  the  old  precepts  of  Horace,  and  denies  alto- 
gether to  poetry  the  domain  of  pure  description. 
4 A flower  ’,  he  says,  4 by  a Dutcli  painter  recalls  all 
that  word  painting  of  it  can  effect.  Homer  does 
not  describe  the  shield  of  Achilles  when  made,  but 
he  paints  the  action  of  the  divine  maker  of  it,  and 
thus  places  the  whole  before  our  eyes.  The  trails- 


20 


LAOCOON 


•cendent  beauty  of  Helen  is  painted,  by  Homer,  not 
by  descriptive  detail,  but  in  the  effect  which  it 
produced  on  the  aged  counsellors  of  Troy’.  That 
Lessing  carried  the  doctrine,  that  poetry  had  nothing 
to  do  wdth  description,  too  far,  in  his  eagerness  to 
destroy  the  passion  for  descriptive  poetry  which 
prevailed  in  his  youth,  and  which  an  extravagant 
admiration  of  Thomson’s  Seasons  had  done  much  to 
foster,  is  a proposition  which  I think  the  reader  of 
the  second  volume  of  Humboldt’s  Kosmos  will  not 
dispute. 

I purpose  to  return  to  this  subject  a little  further 
on,  but  I may  observe,  how  often  it  happens  that 
a few  words  of  description  animate  the  painter’s 
picture,  awakening  the  imagination  to  the  exquisite 
taste  and  beauty  of  a performance  which,  of  itself, 
would  have  commanded  admiration  only  for  the 
merits  of  imitation  and  execution.  For  instance,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  picture  of  an  old  man- 
of-war  towed  by  a steam-tug  up  a river.  The  exe- 
cution of  such  a subject  may  deserve  great  praise 
and  give  great  satisfaction  to  the  beholder.  But 
add  to  the  representation  the  statement  that  it  is 
4 The  fighting  Temeraire  towed  to  her  last  berth’, 
and  a series  of  the  most  stirring  events  of  our 
national  history  fills  our  imagination,  while  the 
contrast  between  the  ancient  and  modern  powers 
of  navigation  is  also,  but,  not  alone,  forcibly  pre- 
sented to  the  mind. 

In  the  following  lines  the  picture  of  a painting 
seems  to  transcend  the  painting  itself : 

2 Servant . 

Dost  thou  love  pictures  ? we  will  fetch  thee  straight 
Adonis,  painted  by  a running  brook, 

And  Cytherea,  all  in  sedges  hid, 

That  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath, 

Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord. 

We’ll  show  thee  Io  as  she  was  a maid, 

And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surprised, 

As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 


PREFACE 


21 


3 Servant. 

Or  Daphne,  roaming  through  a thorny  wood, 

Scratching  her  legs  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds, 

And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep  : 

So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn  L 

Goethe 2 wrote  his  essay  ‘ upon  Laocoon5  in  1797,. 
in  the  Propylaen3.  At  the  close  of  this  essay  he 
considers  the  relation  of  the  subject  to  poetry.  ‘It 
is  a great  injustice’,  he  argues,  ‘against  Virgil  and 
poetry  to  compare  the  most  carefully  executed 
masterpiece  of  sculpture  with  the  episodic  treat- 
ment of  the  same  subject  in  the  Aeneid.  The  unfor- 
tunate tempest-tossed  Aeneas  had  to  tell  the  whole 
story  of  the  taking  of  Troy,  and  to  excuse  the  in- 
credible folly  of  introducing  the  wooden  horse  into 
the  city. 

‘ The  history  of  the  Laocoon  \ he  says,  ‘ is  a kind 
of  rhetorical  argument,  which  admits  of  varied  ex- 
aggeration. Hence  the  picture  of  the  enormous 
serpents  advancing  from  the  sea  and  fastening  upon 
the  children  of  Laocoon  who  had  injured  the  horse. 
The  people  fly — no  one  dares  any  more  to  be  a 
patriot,  and  the  hearer,  aghast  at  the  horrors, 
finds  the  introduction  of  the  horse  not  unnatural. 
In  Virgil  the  history  of  the  Laocoon  is  only  a means 
to  a higher  end,  and  it  is  still  a very  moot  question 
whether  the  event  be  per  se  a poetical  incident  \ 

This  work  of  Goethe  is  of  rather  a feeble  character. 
The  mind  of  Lessing  was  of  a more  robust  and  manly 
texture  than  the  mind  of  Goethe. 

Mr  Lewes  observes  that  ‘Instruction  in  the 
theory  of  art  he  (Goethe)  gained  from  Oeser,  from 
Winkelmann,  and  from  Laocoon , the  incompar- 
able little  book  which  Lessing  at  this  period  care- 

1 Taming  of  the  Shrew , Induction,  scene  ii. 

2 Werke,  38,  13.  49. 

3 Goedeke,  824.  The  Propylaen  meant  the  vestibule  of  the  Temple 
of  Knowledge  or  Truth.  See  Einleitung  in  die  Pro.  Goethe’s  Werke,  B. 
38,  1.  I t is  remarkable  that  in  this  essay  lie  does  not  refer  to  Lessing’s 
work,  to  which  he  was  much  beholden,  and  with  which  he  was  well 
acquainted. 


22 


LAOCOON 


lessly  flung  upon  the  world.  Its  effect  upon  Goethe 
can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  in  early  life 
have  met  with  this  work  and  risen  from  it  with 
minds  widened,  strengthened,  inspired’1. 

Frederick  Schlegel2,  in  his  work  on  Lessing, 
remarked  with  justice  ‘that  the  mere  erudition  of 
Germans  was  undeniable,  what  was  wanted  for  the 
foundation  of  their  literature  was  the  substratum 
of  a learned,  vigorous  and  yet  popular  spirit  of 
criticism,  continued  on  the  model  which  Lessing 
had  furnished — a free  spirit  of  investigation  strug- 
gling to  attain  just  ideas  of  art,  vigorous  in  logic, 
but  quick  in  sympathy,  and  extending  to  the  whole 
domain  of  literature’. 

2.  Whether  the  literary  rank  and  position  of 
Lessing  in  Germany  was  ever  equal  to  that  of  Dr 
Johnson  in  England — whether  a parallel  can  be 
instituted  between  Lessing  and  Shaftesbury,  the 
author  of  the  Characteristics , are  propositions  which, 
in  spite  of  the  considerable  authority  of  Mr  De 
Quincey  in  favour  of  them,  are  to  my  mind  very 
doubtful.  The  effect  produced  by  the  Laocoon 
upon  the  European  Continent  out  of  Germany, 
though  great,  was  by  no  means  equal  to  its  merits. 
Europe  generally  seems  to  have  taken  less  interest 
in  it  than  in  his  other  works.  Vanderbourg  appears 
— I have  never  seen  the  work — to  have  published  a 
French  translation  in  1780.  But  it  had  no  influence 
on  the  criticism  then  prevalent  in  France.  Another 
French  translation  appeared  in  1802,  which  is  more 
generally  known.  Lessing  had  prepared  a French 
preface,  and  intended  to  have  translated  the  whole 
work  into  that  language.  It  is  perhaps  fortunate 
that  he  did  not  execute  his  intention.  His  power 
of  writing  French,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  preface 
which  he  translated  into  this  language,  was  much 
less  than  he  appears  himself  to  have  been  aware  of. 

1 Life  of  Goethe , p.  57. 

2 Lessing's  Geist  aus  seinen  Schriften , Oder  dessen  GedanTcen  und 
Meinungen  zusammengestellt  und  erlautert.  Leipz.  1804. 


PBEFACE 


23 


Section  III 

1.  Influence  of  the  Laocoon  in  England  ; 2.  Writers  and  Lecturers  on 
Poetry  and  Painting.  Lord  Macaulay ; 3.  English  Translations 
of  the  Laocoon. 

1.  Lord  Bacon,  in  his  Advancement  of  Learning, 
had  said1,  ‘The  parts  of  Human  Learning  have 
reference  to  three  parts  of  man’s  Understanding, 
which  is  the  seat  of  learning  : History  to  his 
Memory,  Poesy  to  his  Imagination,  and  Philosophy 
to  his  Beason’2.  Gurauer  remarks  that  in  conse- 
quence of  this  division  the  English  school  of  thought 
naturally  considered  Fancy  ‘ as  the  common  factor  ’ 
of  poetry  and  painting,  and  it  was  from  this  kind 
of  psychological  treatment  of  the  arts  that  the  true 
principle  of  ancient  art,  namely,  objective  imita- 
tion, that  is,  the  reality  of  the  object,  was  exchanged 
for  the  subjective  principle  of  fiction.  False 
Idealism  took  the  place  of  Nature  and  Truth,  and 
prepared  the  way  for  the  confusion  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  England,  which  prevailed  when  the 
Laocoon  was  written.  The  confusion  does  appear 
to  have  existed,  but,  not  long  after  the  publication 
of  the  Laocoon,  it  was  in  a great  measure  dispelled 
by  high  authority,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  Discourses 
of  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds,  the  first  of  which  was 
delivered  in  1769. 

The  influence  of  the  Laocoon  in  England  was 
much  later  and  slower  than  on  the  Continent.  The 
German  language  was  little  studied  during  the  last 
century  in  this  country. 

2.  There  is  a peculiar  kind  of  English  literature 
in  which  we  should  expect  to  find  early  mention  of 
the  aesthetic  principles  laid  down  in  the  Laocoon.  I 
mean  the  Discourses  of  the  Presidents,  and  the 
Lectures  of  Professors  of  Painting,  in  our  Boyal 


1 Book  vi. 


2 ii,  14. 


24 


LAOCOON 


Academy  ; a literature,  let  me  observe,  in  passing, 
very  interesting  and  instructive,  and  too  much 
neglected  in  the  present  age.  Not  improbably 
Johnson  and  Burke  contributed  to  the  lectures  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds;  but  in  any  event  the  educa- 
tion of  an  English  gentleman  is  incomplete  with- 
out a knowledge  of  them.  The  first  Discourse 
of  Sir  Joshua  was  delivered  in  1769,  the  last  in 
1790. 

In  no  Discourse,  in  no  letter  or  essay,  by  Sir 
Joshua  is  there  any  reference,  I believe,  to  Lessing. 
Nevertheless,  the  reader  of  the  Laocoon  will  often 
be  struck  by  the  resemblance  of  the  canons  in  that 
work  to  those  laid  down  by  Sir  Joshua.  I have 
referred  in  the  notes  to  some  of  them.  The  reader 
may  not  dislike  to  read  in  this  place  some  of  the 
passages  which  bear  this  character. 

eA  painter’  (writes  Sir  Joshua  in  1771)  ‘must  com- 
pensate the  natural  deficiencies  of  art.  He  has  but  one 
sentence  to  utter,  but  one  moment  to  exhibit ’ 1. 

‘ The  true  test  of  all  the  arts  is  not  solely  whether  the 
production  is  a true  copy  of  nature,  but  whether  it 
answers  the  end  of  art,  which  is  to  produce  a pleasing 
effect  upon  the  mind  \ . . . ‘I  believe  it  may  be  considered 
as  a general  rule  that  no  art  can  be  grafted  with  success 
on  another  art  2.  For  though  all  profess  the  same  origin, 
and  to  proceed  from  the  same  stock,  yet  each  has  its  own 
peculiar  modes,  both  of  imitating  Nature  and  of  deviating 
from  it,  each  for  the  accomplishment  of  its  own  particular 
purpose  5 3. 

‘ I fear  we  (painters)  have  but  very  scanty  means  of 
exciting  those  powers  over  the  imagination  which  make 
so  very  considerable  a part  of  poetry.  It  is  a doubt  with 
me  whether  we  should  even  make  the  attempt.  The 
chief,  if  not  the  only,  occasion  which  the  painter  has  for 
this  artifice,  is  when  the  subject  is  improper  to  be  more 
fully  represented  either  for  the  sake  of  decency,  or  to 
avoid  what  would  be  disagreeable  to  be  seen  ; and  this  is 
not  to  raise  or  to  increase  the  passions,  which  is  the  reason 

1 Works , i,  348,  4th  Discourse.  2 See  p.  304  of  this  work. 

3 Works,  ii,  73,  13th  Discourse. 


PREFACE  25 

that  is  given  for  this  practice,  but,  on  the  contrary,  to 
diminish  their  effect 5 h 

‘ Invention  in  painting  does  not  imply  the  invention  of 
the  subject,  for  that  is  commonly  supplied  by  the  poet  or 
historian.  With  respect  to  the  choice,  no  subject  can  be 
proper  that  is  not  generally  interesting.  It  ought  to  be 
either  some  eminent  instance  of  heroic  action,  or  heroic 
suffering.  There  must  be  something  either  in  the  action, 
or  in  the  object,  in  which  men  are  universally  concerned, 
and  which  powerfully  strikes  upon  the  public  sympathy  ’1  2. 

‘ It  is  not  the  eye,  it  is  the  mind  which  the  painter  of 
genius  desires  to  address ; nor  will  he  waste  a moment 
upon  those  smaller  objects  which  only  serve  to  catch  the 
sense,  to  divide  the  attention,  and  to  counteract  his  great 
design  of  speaking  to  the  heart.  This  is  the  ambition 
which  I wish  to  excite  in  your  minds  ; and  the  object  I 
have  had  in  my  view  throughout  this  discourse  is  that  one 
great  idea  which  gives  to  painting  its  true  dignity,  which 
entitles  it  to  the  name  of  a liberal  art,  and  ranks  it  as  a 
sister  of  poetry  - 3. 

‘Poetry  operates  by  raising  our  curiosity,  engaging  the 
mind  by  degrees  to  take  an  interest  in  the  event,  keep- 
ing that  event  suspended,  and  surprising  at  last  with  an 
unexpected  catastrophe. 

‘ The  painter’s  art  is  more  confined,  and  has  nothing 
that  corresponds  with,  or  perhaps  is  equivalent  to,  this 
power  and  advantage  of  leading  the  mind  on  till  attention 
is  totally  engaged.  What  is  done  by  painting  must  be 
done  at  one  blow ; curiosity  has  received  at  once  all  the 
satisfaction  it  can  ever  have  ’ 4. 

This  was  written  in  1778. 

In  one  respect  Sir  Joshua  differed  materially 
from  Lessing  : he  did  not  disapprove  of  allegorical 
painting  6. 

1 Works  i,  460,  8th  Discourse.  2 lb.,  845,  4th  Discourse. 

3 lb.,  340,  3rd  Discourse.  * ib.,  439,  8th  Discourse. 

5 Ib.,  i,  420-1,  7th  Discourse.  Compare  Fuseli’s  Life,  ii,  197. 
See  p.  112  of  this  work,  where  the  following  note  would  have  been 
better  placed  : ‘ Premettiamo,  che  di  tre  fatte  esser  posson  gli  Em- 
blemi : poich6  alcuni  sono,  die  dichiarano  la  natura,  e la  cagion  delle 
cose  : e questi  si  diiamano  Fiaici.  Altri  sono,  che  racchiudono 
qualclie  azione,  o favolosa  o vera,  die  sia:  e questi  si  dicono  Jstorici , 

sc  1’  azione  fu  vera ; o Mithilogici , se  1’  azione  fu  falsa.  Altri  tinal- 


26 


LAOCOON 


It  was  in  1807  that  John  Opie  read  his  lectures 
to  the  Koyal  Academy.  He  does  not  mention 
Lessing,  but  he  makes  the  following  observations 
on  the  arts  of  Poetry  and  Painting  : 

‘ Here,  however,  it  will  be  proper  to  remark,  that, 
though  from  the  acknowledged  similarity  in  the  principles 
-and  effects  of  these  two  arts,  the  one  has  been  called  mute 
poesy , and  the  other  speaking  picture , such  is  still  the  very 
great  diversity  in  their  modes  and  means  of  exerting  their 
powers,  that  the  study  of  one  can,  at  best,  be  considered 
as  a general  only,  and,  not  at  all,  as  a technical  help  to 
invention  in  the  other  : the  roads  they  take,  though 
parallel,  lie  as  entirely  apart,  and  unconnected,  as  the 
senses  of  hearing  and  seeing,  the  different  gates  by  which 
they  enter  the  mind.  The  one  operates  in  time,  the  other 
in  space  ; the  medium  of  the  one  is  sound,  of  the  other 
colour  ; and  the  force  of  the  one  is  successive  and  cumula- 
tive, of  the  other  collected  and  instantaneous.  Hence  the 
poet,  in  His  treatment  of  a story,  is  enabled  to  bespeak  the 
reader’s  favour  by  a graceful  introduction,  describing  his 
characters,  relating  what  has  already  happened,  and 
showing  their  present  situation  ; and  thus  preparing  him 
for  what  is  to  come,  to  lead  him  on  step  by  step  with 
increasing  delight,  to  the  full  climax  of  passion  and 
interest ; whilst  the  painter,  on  the  contrary,  deprived  of 
all  such  auxiliary  aid,  is  obligated  to  depend  on  the  effect 
of  a single  moment.  That  indeed  is  the  critical  moment 
in  which  all  the  most  striking  and  beautiful  circumstances 
that  can  be  imagined  are  concentrated,  big  with  suspense, 
interest,  passion,  terror,  and  action  ; in  short,  the  moment 
of  explosion,  which  illuminates  and  brings  at  once  into 
view  the  past , present , and  future , and  which,  when  well 
rendered,  is  often  more  than  equivalent  to  all  the 
successive  energies  of  the  past. 

‘ This  contrariety  in  their  means,  in  some  degree, 
separates  and  limits  their  fields  of  operation  ; and  (though 
there  are  many  subjects  equally  adapted  to  both  arts) 
calls,  in  general,  for  a different  principle  in  the  choice  of 


xnente  a’  costumi  s’  aspettano  ; e si  chiamano  Ethici , o Morali  *.  II 
Quadrio,  Della  Storia  e Ragione  d'  ogni  Poesia,  Lib.  ii,  Dist.  iii,  vol. 
iii,  c.  ix,  part,  v,  p.  413. 


PREFACE 


27 


them.  The  most  striking  beauties,  as  presented  to  one 
sense,  being  frequently  wholly  untranslatable  into  the 
language  of  another,  it  necessarily  results  that  many 
interesting  passages  in  history  and  poetry  are  incapable  of 
affording  more  than  a bald  and  insipid  representation  on 
canvass  ’ \ 

In  1813,  Dr  Copleston  published  at  Oxford  his 
Praelectiones  Academicae , in  which  the  philosophy  of 
poetry  is  treated  with  the  acumen,  the  grace  of 
style,  and  admirable  Latinity  which  were  among 
the  accomplishments  of  the  distinguished  writer. 
The  whole  treatise  was  divided  into  four  parts  : 
]Je  Imitations,  De  Affectibus , De  Phantasm , De  Judicio. 
In  the  first  part  he  examined  the  propriety  of  call- 
ing poetry  an  imitative  art  ; and,  like  Lessing,  took 
Homer2  for  his  example  and  authority,  speaking  of 
his  ingenii  plusquam  Prometheus  ardor , by  which  he 
had  penetrated  into  the  whole  domain  of  nature. 
The  lectures  contain  a comparison  of  Poetry  with 
Painting — an  enquiry,  among  other  matters,  into 
the  proper  functions  of  each,  with  respect  to  de- 
scription, embellished  and  supported  by  many 
citations  from  the  classics.  No  reference  is  to  be 
found  to  Lessing,  and  I think  the  Laocoon  was 
unknown  to  him. 

Henry  Fuseli,  or  Fuessli,  a native  of  Switzerland, 
came  to  England  at  an  early  age,  and,  encouraged 
by  Sir  Joshua,  devoted  himself  to  painting  in  this 
country.  He  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven,  in  the 
year  1 825.  In  1803  he  was  elected  Professor  of  Paint- 
ing to  the  Royal  Academy,  an  office  of  which  he  dis- 
charged the  duties  for  twenty  years.  During  this 
period  he  published  his  Lect  ures , which  have  obtained 
considerable  reputation.  His  English  is  not  idio- 

1 Opie’s  Lectures  on  Painting  (published  1800).  Lecture  II,  read  at 
the  Royal  Academy,  Feb.  23,  1807,  pp.  61-3. 

2 ‘ Atque  ut  omittam  nunc  dicere  de  variis  scribendi  formis,  quales 
sunt  Epica  Lyrica  Dramatica  aut  de  styli  varietate,  de  ipsa  re  ac 
materia  videatnus,  quantum  inter  partes  sit  discrimen  quae  sensibus 
nostris  oblectamentum  pariunt.  Quod  ne  in  infinitum  excurramus 
JJnius  Homeri  finnandum  est  exemplo  ’,  etc.  Prael.  2,  p.  17. 


28 


LAOCOON 


matie  or  pure,  and  is  often  turgid,  but  not  without 
force  and  fire.  Of  German  he  was  a complete 
master — one  consequence  of  which  was  that,  first  of 
English  Professors  of  Painting,  he  did  full  justice 
by  name  to  Lessing’s  Laocoon,  upon  the  principles 
of  which  his  third  lecture  ‘ on  Invention  ’ is  in  great 
measure  founded.  It  opens  with  a reference  to 
Simonides  and  Plutarch,  and  observes 

‘ that  as  Poetry  and  Painting  resemble  each  other  in 
their  uniform  address  to  the  senses,  for  the  impression 
they  mean  to  make  on  our  fancy,  and  by  that  on  our  mind, 
so  they  differ  as  essentially  in  their  materials  and  in  their 
modes  of  application,  which  are  regulated  by  the  diversity 
of  the  organs  which  they  address,  ear  and  eye.  Successive 
action  communicated  by  sound  and  tune  are  the  medium  of 
poetry : form  displayed  in  space  and  momentaneous  energy 
are  the  elements  of  painting 5 \ 

Professor  Phillips  succeeded  to  the  chair  of 
Fuseli  in  1824,  and  in  one  of  his  very  eloquent 
lectures  shows  himself  to  have  been  imbued  with 
the  principles  of  the  Laocoon , though  he  does  not 
refer  to  the  work,  and  probably  knew  them  only 
through  the  medium  of  F useli’s  Lecture  on  Invention . 

‘ It  is  scarcely  possible  ’,  Phillips  says,  ‘ to  consider  the 
quality  and  the  object  of  invention,  as  employed  by  the 
painter,  without  reference  to  its  influence  in  poetry. 
There  is  an  unity  of  object  in  the  minds  of  the  poet  and 
the  painter,  which  gives  a near  degree  of  affinity  to  the 
arts  they  profess  when  employed  upon  the  illustration  of 
history  or  the  productions  of  fancy  ; they  differ  only  in 
their  varied  means.  One  spirit  actuates  them,  one  power 
directs  them  to  the  same  end  ; their  course  only  is  differ- 
ent, as  are  the  agents  through  whose  means  they  act  upon 
the  different  organs  of  our  senses,  the  eye,  and  the  ear. 

‘ The  greatest  and  most  important  effort  required  of 
invention  in  either  of  those  arts,  is  the  selection  of  that 
which  best  relates,  adorns,  and  elevates  the  subject 
chosen ; or  the  separation  of  that  which  is  essential, 

1 Fuseli,  J Forks,  vol.  iii,  pp.  133-4  ; ed.  Knowles,  1831. 


PEEFACE  29 

which  gives  vitality  to  it  from  the  ordinary  matter 
accompanying  all  mundane  things. 

‘Under  what  regulation  the  painter  or  the  poet  may 
select  from  among  these  visions  of  his  imagination  which 
are  calculated  to  elevate,  or  to  give  to  his  subject  the 
air  of  ideal  character,  or  of  refinement  demanded  by  his 
fancy,  remains  a matter  of  taste  ; but  one  thing  is  clear, 
the  basis  of  his  means  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  desire 
must  be  sought  for  on  earth,  and  he  must  elevate  the 
matter  as  he  may  ; with  constant  reference  to  nature.  A 
character  understood  by  human  beings  must  be  main- 
tained in  the  vision ; and,  however  small  the  portions, 
it  will  be  the  leading  principle  in  the  mind  of  the  reader 
of  the  poem,  or  the  observer  of  the  picture. 

‘ Though  both  the  poet  and  the  painter  are  confined  in 
their  compositions  to  this  principle  of  reference  to  nature, 
the  poet  is  infinitely  the  most  unrestrained  of  the  two. 
The  instrument  he  employs,  and  the  organ  he  addresses, 
require  far  less  of  materiality  than  is  demanded  of  the 
painter  ; and  numberless  are  the  instances  in  which  the 
privilege  has  been  successfully  indulged  ’ 1. 

During  the  last  half  century  a knowledge  of 
German  has  become  very  general  in  this  country. 
Mr  Lewes 2 says  4 Macaulay  told  me  that  the  read- 
ing of  this  little  book  (the  Laocoon)  formed  an 
epoch  in  his  mental  history,  and  that  he  learned 
more  from  it  than  he  had  ever  learned  elsewhere ’. 

3.  The  Laocoon  was  translated  into  English  by 
Mr  Eoss  in  1836.  Mr  De  Quincey’s  eloquent 
paraphrase  of  a part  of  the  Laocoon  will  be  found 
in  the  twelfth  volume  of  his  works.  Mr  Beasley’s 
translation  appeared  in  1859,  and  one  by  an 
American  lady,  Miss  Froth ingham,  appeared  first 
in  Boston,  and  afterwards  in  London,  during  this 
year  3. 

That  there  are  still  in  tins  country  many  edu- 
cated persons  capable  of  appreciating  the  Laocoon , 
but  reluctant  to  take  the  trouble  of  reading  it  in 
German,  I am  satisfied.  Not  long  ago  I suggested 

1 Phillips’s  Lectures  on  Painting  (1S33),  pp.  194-100. 

2 Life  of  Goethe,  p.  57.  3 1874. 


30 


LAOCOON 


the  perusal  of  a German  book  to  a highly  educated 
man,  adding,  4 1 suppose  you  read  German  ? ’.  He 
said,  4 Yes,  but  I prefer  reading  a translation  \ It 
may,  indeed,  be  not  unreasonably  asked  why  another 
English  translation  should  appear  ? To  which  the 
answer  must  be,  however  unsatisfactory,  that  I 
had  nearly  finished  this  translation  before  I could 
obtain  a copy  of  Mr  Beasley’s  work,  and  quite 
finished  it  before  the  American  translation  reached 
me  : and  it  seemed  to  me  that  a translation  with  a 
preface  and  notes,  and  which  was  not  confined  to 
the  first  part  of  the  Laocoon , but  included  the  frag- 
ments of  the  unfinished  parts,  which  have  not  yet, 
I believe,  been  translated  into  English,  might  still 
be  acceptable  to  the  public,  and  conduce  in  a 
humble  degree  to  a better  acquaintance  with 
Lessing’s  great  work.  I hope  I have  not  incurred 
the  censure  of  Don  Quixote,  and  shown,  as  he  says 
bad  translators  are  apt  to  do,  the  wrong  side  of  the 
tapestry  \ 


Section  IY 

1.  Poetry  in  its  relation  to  the  Drama,  ITamburgische  Dramaturgic ; 

2.  Poetry  in  its  relation  to  Music. 

1.  Lessing  might  have  been  satisfied  that  he  had 
laid  down  sound  sfesthetical  principles  on  the  re- 
spective boundaries  of  Poetry  and  Painting  when 
he  published  his  essay  on  the  Laocoon ; but  he 
knew  that  he  had  not  exhausted  even  this  subject, 
while  he  had  left  almost  untouched  others  inti- 
mately connected  with  it.  First,  poetry  in  the 
form  of  the  drama  required  a fuller  consideration, 
both  generally  and  as  compared  with  painting ; 

i Don  Quixote,  t.  iv,  cap.  cxv.  330 ; ed.  Madrid,  1777.  The  German 
edition  of  the  Laocoon  which  I have  used  was  published  at  Berlin, 
1839. 


PREFACE 


31 


secondly,  these  arts  had  not  been  treated  in  their 
relation  to,  and  in  comparison  with,  the  science  of 
sound  and  the  art  of  music  \ 

The  defect  as  to  the  former  subject  was  in  a 
great  measure  supplied  by  a very  remarkable, 
though  now  much  forgotten,  publication.  The  first 
number  of  the  Hamburgische  Dramaturgie  appeared 
on  the  1st  of  May  17671  2.  It  reached  104  numbers, 
and  the  last  appeared,  I believe,  on  the  19th  of 
April  1768.  The  work  consisted  of  weekly  Papers 
on  the  drama  and  dramatic  literature  published 
at  Hamburg.  The  title  was  taken  from  an  Italian 
work  entitled  Dramaturgia , written  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  16th  century  by  Leo  Allatius  or  Leoni 
Alacci.  In  these  vigorous  essays  Lessing  let  loose 
all  his  wrath  against  the  French  dramatists  and 
the  French  stage3.  If  tragedy  was  the  highest 
form  of  dramatic  poetry,  by  that  standard  the 
French,  he  maintained,  had  no  theatre.  He  treated 
with  merciless  severity  the  pretensions  of  Voltaire, 
then  the  unworthy  idol  of  Europe,  to  be  an  his- 
torian, or  a dramatic  poet ; and  he  maintained  that 
the  principle  upon  which  Corneille  wrote  tragedy 
was  thoroughly  rotten  and  false  4.  He  threw  over 
with  might  and  main  the  French  worship  of  the 
three  unities  of  place,  time,  and  action,  and  con- 
fined, with  a vehemence  which  went  perhaps  beyond 
its  mark,  the  drama  within  the  unity  of  action 5. 
He  dwelt  on  the  extraordinary  merits  and  genius 
of  Shakespere.  But  he  did  more.  ‘The  Laocoon 
is  the  work  ’ (says  Gervinus) 6 ‘ which  by  one  blow 

1 ‘Dry den’s  Musical  Pictures.’ 

2 Goedeke,  Grundriss  2.  Gesch.  d.  deutschen  Dichtung , 2.  615.  16. 

3 Stahr’s  Lessing , 324,  Kap.  5.  4 Stahr,  338. 

5 It  is  remarkable  that  neither  Manzoni,  in  his  admirable  letter  to 
Monsieur  Chauvet,  ‘Sur  l’unite  de  temps  et  de  lieu  dans  la  Tragedie’, 
nor  Goethe  in  his  approving  reviews  of  Manzoni’s  Carmagnola  and 
Adelchi,  should  refer  to  Lessing’s  Dramaturgie ; Manzoni’s  proposi- 
tion being  that  unity  of  action  was  alone  necessary  ( Opere , <$v.  di 

Manzoni , p.  95,  Paris,  1843).  Goethe,  Werke , 38.  253.  305.  Goethe 
speaks,  however,  of  the  principle  as  well  known  in  Germany. 

<>  Gesch.  der  deutschen  Lit.  4.  399. 


32 


LAOCOON 


set  us  free  from  the  yoke  of  French  bondage,  and 
which  called  forth  the  energy,  the  life,  and  the 
depth  of  our  national  literature.  It  was  the  polar 
star  of  the  future  poets  of  Germany  \ 

At  present  we  are  only  concerned  with  these 
essays  in  their  relation  to  the  Laocoon.  ‘If  you 
wish’,  observes  Gurauer1,  ‘to  find  a parallel  in  the 
former  works  of  Lessing  to  the  Dramaturgic,  both 
with  respect  to  the  form  and  the  depths  of  the 
discussions,  the  Laocoon  presents  itself  to  you  for 
this  purpose.  As  the  laws  of  the  plastic  arts  and 
of  poetry,  especially  of  epic  poetry,  were  in  the 
Laocoon  the  object  of  his  inquiry,  so  in  the  Drama- 
turgic are  the  laws  of  dramatic  poetry,  especially 
of  tragedy’.  The  transition  from  the  one  to  the 
other  was  natural.  In  the  same  way  as  there  is  no 
formal  proposition  of  the  schools  laid  down  as  the 
basis  of  the  Laocoon,  from  which  laws  and  ideas 
arose  in  a complete  symmetrical  system,  inasmuch 
as  they  arose  from  the  consideration  of  a single 
work  of  art,  and  wandered  into  various  paths  in 
order  to  arrive  at  general  results ; so  the  Drama- 
turgic was  not  intended  to  be  a teacher’s  book  on  a 
dramatic  system ; but  certain  pieces,  not  always 
the  best,  considered  together,  were  examined  and 
used  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  light  upon  certain 
contested  or  obscure  questions  without  arriving  at 
a complete  resolution  of  them.  But  they  were  to 
be  considered  only  as  thoughts,  the  chief  value  of 
which  was  to  stimulate  the  reader  to  think  for 
himself.  Nevertheless,  the  course  taken  by  the 
critic  was  different  in  the  two  works. 

4 In  the  Laocoon  his  principal  object  was  to  discover  the 
law  of  the  plastic  arts— first  as  compared  with  Poetry  by 
speculative  abstractions,  chiefly  taken  from  Homer  and 
the  principal  works  of  antiquity.  This  wTas  not  the 
object  of  the  Dramaturgic.  Lessing  was  of  opinion  that 
the  codex  dramaticus  was  not  to  seek,  but  was  found  ; it 


i P.  170. 


PREFACE 


33 


existed  in  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle.  Lessing  had  no  rever- 
ence for  merely  great  names  or  consecrated  authorities. 

1 6 If  that  were  all  ”,  he  said1,  “ I would  make  short  work  of 
Aristotle  55  ; but  it  is  because  his  canons  and  propositions 
as  to  the  drama  exactly  agreed  with  those  of  Lessing  ; 
because,  after  studying  the  drama  for  many  years,  he  was 
convinced  that  you  could  not  take  a step  in  an  opposite 
direction  from  the  rules  of  Aristotle’s  Poetics  without 
taking  a step  in  the  opposite  direction  to  perfection. 
Pointing  with  his  finger,  as  it  were,  to  Shakespere,  Lessing 
laid  down  in  his  Dramaturgic  canons  for  the  German 
drama,  even  as  in  his  Laocoon  he  had  furnished  canons  for 
the  theory  and  practice  of  art  and  poetry.  Laocoon 
sufficed  for  the  latter  ; Homer  and  Milton,  Sophocles  and 
Shakespere,  for  the  former 

2.  Now  as  to  the  second  point,  namely,  the  relation 
of  Music  to  Poetry.  Herder,  who  trembled  unneces- 
sarily for  the  fate  of  all  lyrical  and  epic  poetry,  as 
undermined  by  the  principles  of  the  Laocoon2,  wrote 
upon  this  work  his  first  important  criticism  ; and 
complained  of  the  want  in  it  of  a comparison  and 
juxtaposition  of  Music  and  Poetry. 

He  did  not  know  that  Lessing  intended  to  deal 
fully  with  this  theme — which  he  afterwards  touched 
upon  in  his  Dramaturgic — in  the  second  part  of  his 
Laocoon,  for  which  we  have  only  a few  notes,  and 
‘with  a depth  and  comprehensiveness’,  says  one  of 
his  biographers 3,  ‘ which  Herder  never  imagined  \ 
It  appears,  from  an  anecdote  related  by  Gurauer, 
that  Lessing  was  not  able  to  endure  a musical  per- 
formance of  any  length,  especially  of  sonatas,  and 
that,  after  a certain  time,  he  was  obliged  to  rush 
out  into  the  air  in  order  to  breathe  freely.  How 
far,  if  at  all,  this  curious  physical  fact  in  his  consti- 
tution might  have  influenced  his  opinion  on  the 
subject  we  cannot  tell,  but  there  are  many  reasons 
for  lamenting  that  Lessing  never  completed  his 

1 lb.  171.  2 Gurauer,  ii,  76. 

3 Stahr,  ii,  347.  See  also  Gurauer,  ii,  3 47  ; i,  12,  67,  and  see  pp.  816- 
20  of  this  work. 


r> 


34 


LAOCOOIST 


Laocoon ; and  especially  we  must  regret  that  we 
are  deprived  of  a treatise  by  him  on  the  relation  of 
music  to  poetry  and  the  plastic  arts. 

He  well  knew  that  an  investigation  of  the  com- 
mon bond  which  united  them  all  was  one  of  the 
most  interesting  subjects  of  philosophy,  both  with 
respect  to  its  moral  results  and  to  the  mutual 
working  and  influence  of  each  art  upon  the  other. 
He  knew  too,  and  perhaps  this  was  his  peculiar 
merit,  that  the  subject  ought  to  be  considered  not 
merely  as  a cold  abstraction,  but  in  its  relation  to 
daily  actual  life  ; the  finest  needs  of  which  had 
called  the  arts  into  existence,  and  made  them  one 
of  the  noblest  vocations  of  man. 

He  knew  that  from  a keen  perception  and  critical 
observance  of  their  mutual  affinities  had  been 
derived  the  doctrine  both  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
ideal,  which  had  animated  the  unrivalled  creations 
of  the  great  philosophers,  poets,  and  artists  of 
Greece,  and  led  to  a recognition  of  a divine  origin 
in  the  inspirations  of  Homer  and  Pindar. 

He  knew  how  important  a part  in  the  education 
and  elevation  of  man  the  art  of  music  had  played, 
not  only  in  the  wide  signification  which  it  obtained 
among  the  ancients,  but  in  the  much  narrower  and 
more  restricted  signification  of  modern  times ; and 
though  he  could  hardly  have  anticipated  the  posi- 
tion which  it  has  assumed  in  the  present  system  of 
education,  he  would  scarcely  have  approved  of  the 
statement  that  ‘music,  as  distinguished  from  the 
various  rude  attempts  of  the  past,  is  only  about 
400  years  old  ’ K 

The  great  Italian  work  by  Doni 2,  written  about 
the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  has  been 
said,  by  competent  authority,  to  have  sounded  the 
depths  of  ancient  Greek  music,  both  theoretical  and 
practical,  vocal  and  instrumental,  and  to  have 
brought  to  light  and  compared  every  classical 

1 Music  and  Morals , by  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis,  9. 

2 Tiraboschi,  Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  vol.  viii,  pp.  lvi.  lvii. 


PBEFACE 


35 


authority  upon  the  subject.  Nevertheless  it  is 
probable  that  a treatise  by  Lessing  on  the  science 
of  sound  and  the  art  of  music  would  have  given  us 
another  occasion  for  admiring  his  immense  erudi- 
tion, the  vigour  of  his  criticism,  and  the  clearness 
of  his  conclusions,  while  he  brought  to  our  know- 
ledge, in  his  own  way  and  after  his  own  fashion, 
what  Aristotle,  Plato,  Cicero,  Quintilian,  Aristides 
Quintilian,  and  St  Augustine,  had  said  upon  the 
subject ; and  not  only  with  respect  to  antiquity, 
but  with  regard  to  modern  times,  he  would  have 
known  how  ‘to  clear  the  whole  matter  with  good 
distinctions  and  decisions’  h 

We  should  have  had  the  advantage  of  his  great 
critical  faculty  in  the  investigation  and  apprecia- 
tion of  the  theories  of  modern  writers,  so  far  as  they 
had  then  been  developed.  He  would  have  passed  in 
review  before  us  opinions  of  Doni,  Martini,  Webb, 
Harris,  Du  Bos,  upon  the  once  much  vexed  question 
as  to  whether  and  to  what  extent  music  is  to  be 
considered  as  an  imitative  art ; he  would  have 
dwelt  upon  the  distinction  between  the  power  of 
music  to  affect  the  mind  by  direct  and  by  indirect 
imitation,  and  especially  with  reference  to  the 
difference  in  this  respect  between  vocal  and  instru- 
mental music.  We  should  have  had  his  opinion 
upon  the  propositions  of  Webb2,  which  were  prob- 
ably suggested  by  Mengs,  that  while  painting  and 
sculpture  produce  their  effect  simply  as  imitative 
arts,  music  has  the  double  character  of  an  art  of 
impression  as  well  as  of  imitation,  that  the  passions 
are  to  be  traced  by  their  internal  movement,  or 
external  signs,  that  the  musician  first  catches  the 
movement  of  the  passions  as  they  spring  from  the 
soul,  the  painter  waits  till  they  take  the  form  of 
action,  the  poet  possesses  the  advantages  of  both 
and  embraces  in  his  imitations  the  movement  and 
the  effect.  And  then  what  illustrations  he  would 

1 Bacon,  Of  Church  Controversies . 

2 On  Poetry  and  Music , p.  28. 


36 


LAOCOON 


have  drawn  from  Shakspere,  whom  he  so  thoroughly 
appreciated,  and  who  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of 
music. 

There  is  one  portion  of  this  subject  on  which  we 
should  have  listened  with  especial  interest  to  his 
remarks,  namely,  the  origin  and  progress  of  those 
theatrical  representations  in  which  the  charms  of 
music  and  poetry  were  intended  to  be  combined. 
He  who  knew  Milton  so  well  might  have  taken  for 
the  text  of  his  lectures  on  this  subject 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes,  with  many  a winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 

What  would  he  have  said  upon  this  ‘marriage5  of 
Music  and  Poetry  as  shown  in  the  gorgeous  repre- 
sentations which  arose  out  of  the  prodigious  magni- 
ficence of  the  Medici  feasts  at  Florence,  towards  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  and  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  which  offered  to  Italy  ‘the 
first  apparition  of  a new  art  V \ This  music,  founded 
upon  a careful  study  of  the  treatises  of  Greek  music 
brought  into  Italy  after  the  capture  of  Constanti- 
nople, faithfully  noted  the  accent,  the  quantity, 
without  symmetrical  rhythm  or  regular  measure, 
and  was  in  fact  a declamation  rendered  more 
pathetic  by  appreciable  sounds  and  vocal  charms  ; 
this  ‘ canto  recitativo  ‘ chant  recitatif 5,  eventually 
losing  its  adjective,  became,  as  a substantive,  the 
‘ recitative 5 of  the  then  new  Italian  opera 2. 

It  would  have  been  interesting  to  hear  his  opinion 
on  the  probable  future  effect  of  this  class  of  musical 

1 Gingu6ne,  pt.  6,  ch.  xxvi. 

2 Della  Storia  e della  Ragione  d ’ ogni  Poesia , etc.,  di  F.  S.  Quadrio, 
vol.  v,  p.  427,  lib.  iii,  Dist.  iv,  cap.  1.  Dove  dell ’ Origine  e delV  Anti - 
chitd  del  Musicali  Drammi  si  parla  ; ed.  Milano,  1744. 


PREFACE 


37 


representation  on  poetry.  Would  he  have  fore- 
stalled the  opinion  of  great  modern  critics  ? Would 
he  have  foreseen  that  this  music  would  end  in  de- 
basing poetry,  and,  having  been  her  handmaid, 
would  become  her  tyrannical  mistress  1 ; and  that 
‘the  poet  would  be  hampered  by  the  composer  and 
the  composer  by  the  poet  ? ’ 2.  That  poetry  and  music 
were  both  great  arts,  but  greater  alone  than  in 
company?  Or  would  he  have  pronounced  their 
union  happy  and  natural,  their  separation  unhappy 
and  unnatural?  Would  he  have  agreed  with  Du 
Bos  that  music  was  invented  to  give  increased  force 
to  poetry  ? 3. 

Then,  as  to  the  imitative  character  of  music, 
would  he  have  said,  with  Harris4,  that  the  genuine 
charm  of  music,  and  the  wonders  which  it  works, 
are  due,  not  to  its  powers  of  imitation,  which  lie 
within  a narrow  range  and  are  of  little  comparative 
efficacy,  but  to  its  power  of  raising  the  affections  ; 
and  that  the  ideas  of  the  poet  make  the  most  sensible 
impressions  when  the  affections  to  which  he  appeals 
have  been  already  excited  by  music?  It  is  then 
that  he 

pectus  inaniter  angit, 

Irritat,  mulcet,  falsis  terroribus  implet, 

Ut  magus  5 

It  seems  to  me  most  probable  that  he  would  have 

1 Hallam,  ii,  153.  2 Haweis,  28. 

3 * II  nous  reste  & parler  de  la  Musique,  comme  du  troisi^me  des 
moyens  que  les  homines  ont  inventes  pour  donner  une  nouvelle  force 
a la  Poesie,  et  pour  la  mettre  en  6tat  de  faire  sur  nous  une  plus  grande 
impression.  Ainsi  que  le  Peintre  imite  les  traits  et  les  couleurs  de  la 
nature,  de  mdme  le  Musicien  imite  les  tons,  les  accens,  les  soupirs,  les 
inflexions  de  voix,  enfin  tous  ces  sons,  & l’aide  desquels  la  nature  nieme 
exprime  ses  sentimens  et  ses  passions.  Tous  ces  sons,  comme  nous 
l’avons  d6j&  expose  ont  une  force  merveilleuse  pour  nous  emouvoir, 
parcequ’ils  sont  les  signes  des  passions,  institu^s  par  la  nature  dont 
ilsontreQU  leur  6nergie ; au  lieu  que  les  mots  articul6s  ne  sont  que 
des  signes  arbitrages  des  passions.  Les  mots  articules  ne  tirent  leur 
signification  et  leur  valeur  que  de  l’institution  des  homines,  qui  n’ont, 
pu  leur  donner  couis  que  dans  un  certain  pays’.  Du  Bos,  Reflexions 
critiques  sur  la  Poksic  et  sur  la  Peintiirc,  vol.  i,  pp.  406,  467. 

4 Discourse  on  Music , Painting , and  Poetry , pp.  99,  100. 

5 Hor.  Ep.  1.  1.  2. 


38 


LAOCOON 


anticipated  the  more  modern  judgments  on  the 
question  whether  music,  by  certain  sounds  alone, 
moves  the  passions  or  affects  the  general  mental 
disposition,  without  presenting  any  distinct  image 
to  the  mind  and  without  the  aid  of  words ; and 
that  it  was  only  in  the  ancient  sense  of  music, 
including  within  its  wide  scope  a recitative  in 
language,  and  in  connection  with  the  drama,  that 
music  could  properly  be  called  an  imitative  art 1. 

Because,  though  music  might  imitate  natural 
sounds  of  the  inanimate  world,  such  as  the  Hail- 
stone Chorus,  the  imitations  of  the  wind,  the 
thunder,  and  the  sea,  by  Handel,  or  sounds  of  the 
animate  world,  such  as  the  songs  of  birds,  accord- 
ing to  Lucretius2,  or  of  the  human  kind,  like  sounds 
of  j oy  and  grief  and  anguish  ; yet  these  are  imita- 
tions of  so  secondary  and  subordinate  a kind,  when 
compared  with  the  great  power  of  music  in  other 
respects,  as  not  to  justify  the  application  of  the 
term  imitative  to  the  art  in  general3. 

It  was  early  in  the  nineteenth  century  that  Mr 
Twining  became  acquainted,  through  a French 
translation,  with  the  Dramaturgic  of  Lessing,  and, 
in  his  own  admirable  translation  of,  and  dissertation 
upon,  Aristotle’s  poetry,  Twining  remarks  upon  the 
many  ‘excellent  and  uncommon  things’  which 
Lessing’s  work  contained,  regretting  that  he  had 
not  written  a regular  commentary  upon  Aristotle’s 
works4.  I think  Lessing  would  have  approved  of 
his  admirer’s  observation  upon  the  present  subject. 

‘With  respect  to  modern  writers5,  Twining  says,  ‘at 
least,  there  seems  to  be  a manifest  impropriety  in  de- 
nominating music  an  imitative  art,  while  they  confine  the 

1 For  a very  ingenious  and  learned  disquisition  on  the  sense  in  which 
Aristotle  in  his  Poetics  used  ulmo-ls,  and  the  difference  on  this  subject 
between  him  and  Plato,  the  reader  is  referred  to  a little  tract,  De 
Mi  Screws,  etc.,  by  G.  Abeken,  Gottingen,  1836. 

2 ‘At  liquidas  avium  voces  imitarier  ore’,  etc.  Lucret.,  lib.  v,  1378. 

3 Harris,  j Discourse  on  Music , Painting , and  Poetry , p.  68,  note. 

4 Twining’s  Aristotle,  Treat,  on  Poetry,  with  two  Dissertations  on 

Poetical  and  Musical  Imitations.  Ed.  1812,  p.  xxxi. 


PREFACE 


39 


application  of  the  term  imitative  to  what  they  confess  to 
he  the  slightest  and  least  important  of  all  its  powers.  In 
this  view  consistency  and  propriety  are,  certainly,  on  the 
side  of  Dr  Beattie,  when  he  would  ‘ ‘ strike  music  off  the 
list  of  imitative  arts 55 \ But,  perhaps,  even  a farther 
reform  may  justly  be  considered  as  wanting  in  our  language 
upon  this  subject.  With  whatever  propriety,  and  how- 
ever naturally  and  obviously,  the  arts  both  of  music  and 
of  poetry  may  be  separately  and  occasionally  regarded 
and  spoken  of  as  imitative,  yet,  when  we  arrange  and 
class  the  arts,  it  seems  desirable  that  a clearer  language 
were  adopted.  The  notion  that  painting,  poetry,  and 
music  are  all  arts  of  imitation,  certainly  tends  to  produce, 
and  has  produced,  much  confusion.  That  they  all  in 
some  sense  of  the  word  or  other  imitate,  cannot  be  denied  ; 
but  the  senses  of  the  word,  when  applied  to  poetry  or 
music,  are  so  different  both  from  each  other,  and  from 
that  in  which  it  is  applied  to  painting,  sculpture,  and  the 
arts  of  design  in  general — the  only  arts  that  are  obviously 
and  essentially  imitative — that  when  we  include  them  all, 
without  distinction,  under  the  same  general  denomination 
of  imitative  arts,  we  seem  to  defeat  the  only  useful  purpose 
of  all  classing  and  arrangement ; and,  instead  of  producing 
order  and  method  in  our  ideas,  produce  only  embarrass- 
ment and  confusion  ’ 2. 

The  common  bond,  if  these  remarks  be  just,  which 
unites  Poetry,  Painting,  and  Music,  would  not  be 
the  principle  of  mere  imitation,  but  the  common 
property  which  each  art,  properly  cultivated,  pos- 
sesses of  affecting  the  emotions,  raising  the  imagi- 
nation, and  directing  heart  and  mind  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  sublime’ 3. 

‘ These  arts  in  their  highest  province  ’,  says  Sir 
X Reynolds,  ‘ are  not  addressed  to  the  gross  senses, 
but  to  the  desires  of  the  mind,  to  that  spark  of 
divinity  which  we  have  within,  impatient  of  being 
circumscribed  and  pent  up  by  the  world  which  is 
about  us’4. 

l Op.  at.  p.  129.  2 ib.,  pp.  91-3. 

3 See  Gervinus,  4,  64,  as  to  Breitinger’s,  Lessing’s  forerunner’s, 
opinion  on  this  point. 

4 Vol.  ii,  78  18th  Discourse. 


40 


LAOCOON 


Lessing  would  probably  have  admitted  that  music 
was  the  universal  language  of  man,  but  he  would, 
I think,  have  assigned  to  poetry,  especially  dramatic 
poetry,  pre-eminence  over  music  as  well  as  painting 
— would  have  agreed  with  the  modern  author  of  the 
Epilogue  to  Lessing’s  Laocoon : 

They  speak  ! the  happiness  divine 
They  feel,  runs  o’er  in  every  line. 

Its  spell  is  round  them  like  a shower ; 

It  gives  them  pathos,  gives  them  power. 

No  painter  yet  hath  such  a way 
Nor  no  musician,  made,  as  they  ; 

And  gather’d  on  immortal  knolls 
Such  lovely  flowers  for  cheering  souls  ! 

Beethoven,  Raphael,  cannot  reach 

The  charm  which  Homer,  Shakspeare,  teach. 

To  these,  to  these,  their  thankful  race 
Gives,  then,  the  first,  the  fairest  place  ! 

And  brightest  is  their  glory’s  sheen, 

For  greatest  has  their  labour  been  L 


Section  Y 

1.  Notice  of  some  defects  in  Lessing  ; 2.  Lessing’s  censure  of  descrip- 
tive Poetry  considered ; 3.  Lessing’s  account  of  himself. 

1 . It  is  a defect  in  Lessing 2 not  to  have  recognised 
or  understood  the  effect  of  Christian  life  and  teach- 
ing upon  the  art  of  Painting  ; and  the  defect  is  the 
more  remarkable  as  with  respect  to  the  art  of  Poetry 
he  was  fully  aware  of  the  merit  of  the  romantic 
poetry  of  Milton  and  Shakspere,  as  compared  with 
the  classical  poetry.  To  this  defect  is  traceable  a 
certain  hardness  of  tone,  as  if  the  standard  of 
ancient  art  was  the  only  standard,  a hardness  which 
by  degrees  Herder  and  Schiller  softened  and  over- 
came. They  recognised  the  claims  of  the  modern 
or  romantic  school  in  poetry,  architecture,  painting 
especially,  and  landscape  painting,  which  latter 
Winkelmann  and  Lessing  greatly  underrated,  but 


1 Poems  by  Matthew  Arnold,  p.  171. 


2 Gurauer,  ii,  67. 


PREFACE  41 

which  the  Kosmos  of  Humboldt  restored  to  its 
proper  place. 

Lessing  makes,  as  it  were,  only  one  bound  from 
the  age  of  the  ancients  to  the  age  of  the  moderns. 
He  takes  no  cognizance  of  that  long  intervening 
period  which  we  call  the  Middle  Ages.  Yet  in  these 
ages  the  seed  of  modern  culture,  art,  and  poetry 
was  sown.  And  for  a long  period  pictures1  were 
the  books  of  the  people,  according  to  Gregory  the 
Great’s  well-known  remark,  ‘ quod  legentibus  scrip- 
tura,  hoc  idiotis  praestat  pietura  cernentibus,  etc’2. 

The  mediae val  pictures  as  well  as  the  mediaeval 
religious  edifices  strove  to  attain  expression  of 
sentiment  as  their  highest,  and  indeed  only,  end. 
And  the  mediaeval  painter  while  he  sought  out  this 
end,  out  of  regard  to  the  common  people  clothed  his 
figures  : he,  moreover,  introduced  allegory  into  his 
picture  in  order  to  teach  the  fact  of  Scripture 
history. 

2.  One  of  the  biographers  of  Lessing  observes, 
4 Since  we  have  had  Lessing’s  Laocoon  it  has  become 
the  A B C of  poetry  that  the  poet  should  not 
paint’3.  And  it  has  no  doubt  been  a common 
remark  that  a death  blow  was  given  by  Lessing  to 
what  is  called  descriptive  poetry4.  Not  the  less 
fatal  a blow  because  he  who  dealt  it  had  in  his  early 
life  written  in  praise  of  Thomson’s  Seasons. 

This  seems  to  me  to  be  an  error.  It  is  true  that 
a Dutch  painter,  to  use  the  illustration  of  Lessing5, 
will  give  a better  idea  of  a flower  by  his  picture  of  it 
than  a poet  can  do  by  descriptive  verses,  though  even 
this  proposition  with  regard  to  a single  object  is  not 
universal.  Mackintosh  0 asks  what  Chinese  could 
paint  a butterfly  better  than  Spenser : 

1 ‘ Die  alte  Welt  ist  nicht  schroff  von  der  neueren  gescliicden  ’ : 
* There  is  no  abrupt  line  of  severance  between  the  old  and  the  new 
world  ’ ; Humboldt  observes,  Kosmos,  ii,  2(5. 

2 S.  Greg.  Registr.  Ejpist.  lit.  xi,  Indict,  iv,  Ep.  xiii,  ed.  Paris,  1705. 

2 Stahr,  242. 

4 Preface  to  Minna  von  Barnhe.hn,  by  Dr  Bucliheim,  p.  34. 

0 P.  142.  (>  Mackintosh’s  Memoirs,  ii,  246. 


42 


LAOCOON 


The  velvet  nap  which  on  his  wings  doth  lie, 

The  silken  down  with  which  his  back  is  dight, 

His  broad  outstretched  horns,  his  hairy  thighs. 

His  glorious  colours,  and  his  glistering  eyes ! 

Take  also  this  single  image  : 

His  station  like  the  herald  Mercury, 

New  lighted  on  a heaven  kissing  hill  l. 

Is  John  of  Bologna  better  than  this  ? 

But  in  any  case  it  is  not  true  that  a painter  can 
always  give  a better  representation  of  scenery, 
whether  at  sea  or  on  land,  than  a poet.  And  here 
it  must  be  observed  that  if  the  maxim  were  true  it 
would  apply  to  all  descriptions  by  words,  whether 
in  prose  or  poetry. 

The  proposition  is  surely  much  too  broadly  stated. 
That  a mere  catalogue  or  enumeration,  even  with 
distinctive  epithets,  of  a series  of  natural  objects, 
does  not  convey  a picture  to  the  mind,  may  be 
safely  maintained2.  But  the  writer  who  makes  a 
happy  choice  of  various  natural  objects,  who, 
grouping  them  so  as  the  imagination  shall  represent 
them,  avails  himself  of  his  powers  to  bring  them 
forward  in  succession , may  often  surpass  the  painter, 
who  must  exhibit  his  scene  at  once.  Homer3,  I 
think,  deserves  Lucian’s  title  of  being  the  best  of 
painters,  whether  of  landscape  or  of  sea,  as  of  men 
and  actions  ; though  indignation  of  Pope’s  false  and 
meretricious  version,  ascribing  to  Homer  puny 
epithets  and  descriptive  words  which  he  did  not 
employ,  has  given  rise  perhaps  to  a contrary 
opinion. 

I venture  to  offer  some  examples  in  poetry  and 
prose  in  support  of  my  proposition.  First  as  to 
landscape.  Take  Homer’s  unsurpassed  moonlight 
scene 4 : 

O l dy€,  fieya  (ppoveovres,  iirl  tt roAegozo  7 €(pvpas 
Emro  Travvvx101'  ^vpa  8e  aepiai  Kaiero  TroWd. 

1 Hamlet,  act  iii,  sc.  4.  2 Copleston,  Prael.  iv. ; Twining,  44,  etc. 

3 See  Ch.  XI,  Note  2,  of  this  work.  4 r,  © 549-55. 


PREFACE 


43 


*,Qs  5’  #r’  4v  ovpaucS  frarpa  (paeivfy  apcfl  a’eX’fivrjV 
•Pait'er’  apiirpeirea,  ore  r €tt\ ero  VT)vep.os  cu07?p, 

3/E k r 4(pauev  Tracrcu  (TKOirial , real  nrpwoves  &Kpoi, 

Kal  vaivar  ovpavoQev  8’  tip’  inreppayr]  aenreros  aiQ^p, 

Tlavra  84  r etderai  ’acrrpcv  y4yrj0e  84  re  (f>p4u a ‘Koip.'pv1 2. 

Truly  does  Lessing  say  ‘All  the  masterpieces  of 
Homer  were  older  than  any  masterpiece  of  art : for 
Homer  had  looked  at  nature  with  the  eye  of  a 
painter  long  before  Phidias  and  Apelles 7 2. 

Take  a scene  which  no  Claude  can  rival,  in  which 
Aeneas’s  entrance  into  the  Tiber  is  described  by 
Virgil3 : 

Jamque  rubescebat  radiis  mare,  et  aethere  ab  alto 
Aurora  in  roseis  fulgebat  lutea  bigis  ; 

Quum  venti  posuere,  omnisque  repente  resedit 
Flatus,  et  in  lento  luctantur  marmore  tonsae. 

Atque  hie  Aeneas  ingentem  ex  aequore  lucum 
Prospicit.  Hunc  inter  fluvio  Tiberinus  amoeno, 

Vorticibus  rapidis,  et  multa  flavus  arena 
In  mare  prorumpit.  Variae  circumque  supraque 
Assuetae  ripis  volucres  et  fluminis  alveo 
Aethera  mulcebant  cantu,  lucoque  volabant 4 


1 Pope’s  translation,  with  ‘ his  swain  blessing  the  useful  light  ’,  is  as 
feeble  as  old  Chapman’s  is  vigorous  : 

And  spent  all  night  in  open  field : fires  round  about  them  shined 
As  when  about  the  silver  moon,  when  air  is  free  from  wind, 

And  stars  shine  clear : to  whose  sweet  beams  high  prospect  and  the 
brows 

Of  all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust  up  themselves  for  shows  ; 

And  even  the  lowly  vallejs  joy  to  glitter  in  their  sight, 

And  the  unmeasured  firmament  bursts  to  disclose  her  light, 

And  all  the  signs  in  heaven  are  seen  that  glad  the  shejfiierd’s  heart. 

2 See  Ch.  XVIII,  infra.  3 Virg.,  Aeneid,  lib.  vii,  25-34. 

4 Now,  when  the  rosy  morn  began  to  rise, 

And  wav’d  her  saffron  streamer  thro’  the  skies, 

When  Thetis  blush’d  in  purple,  not  her  own, 

And  from  her  face  the  breathing  winds  were  blown, 

A sudden  silence  sat  upon  the  sea, 

And  sweeping  oars,  with  struggling,  urge  their  way. 

The  Trojan,  from  the  main,  beheld  a wood, 

Which  thick  with  shades,  and  a brown  horror,  stood : 

Betwixt  the  trees  the  Tiber  took  his  course, 

With  whirlpools  dimpl’d  ; and  with  downward  force 
That  drove  the  sand  along,  he  took  his  way 
And  roll’d  his  yellow  billows  to  the  sea. 


44 


LAOCOON 


Similar  features  of  natural  beauty  made  a deep 
impression  on  Columbus  as  be  sailed  along  the  coast 
of  Cuba,  between  the  small  Lucayan  Islands  and 
the  Jardinillos.  This  great  man  speaks  of  the 
wonderful  aspect  of  the  vegetation,  in  which  the 
leaves  and  flowers  belonging  to  each  stem  were 
scarcely  distinguishable,  and  of  the  rose-coloured 
flamingoes  fishing  at  the  mouths  of  the  rivers  in  the 
early  morning,  and  animating  the  landscape *  1. 

Then  as  to  the  ocean.  What  painter  can  rival 
Homer’s  painting  of  the  sea  ? 2. 

‘Hs  8'  oV  4v  alyLaXcS  ttoXvtjx et  KVfia  6a\da-(rrjs 
vO pvvr  eiracavrepov,  Z eepvpov  viroKwriaavros' 

Y\6vtk>  pikv  Tcfc  irpoora  Kopv<T<rercu , avrhp  <4n reira 
Xepcrco  priyvv/jLevov  fieyaXa  &p4/j.ei,  a fi<p\  84  t5  dupas 
K vprbv  4bv  Kopvcpovrai,  aTTOTTTvei  8 ’ a\bs  3 

Or  take  Virgil’s  excellent  copy4 

Fluctus  uti  medio  coepit  cum  albescere  ponto, 

Longius  ex  altoque  sinum  trahit : utque,  volutus 
Ad  terras,  immane  souat  per  saxa,  neque  ipso 
Monte  minor  prooumbit : at  ima  exaestuat  unda 
Vorticibus,  nigramque  alte  subjectat  arenam5 


About  him,  and  above,  and  round  the  wood, 

The  birds  that  haunt  the  borders  of  his  flood, 

That  bathed  within,  or  bask’d  upon  his  side, 

To  tuneful  songs  their  narrow  throats  applied. 

Dryden’s  Virgil , book  vii,  35-49. 

l Kosmos,  ii,  56.  % II.,  A 422. 

3 And  as  when  with  the  west  wind  flaws  the  sea  thrusts  up  her 

waves, 

One  after  other,  tlrck  and  high,  upon  the  groaning  shores  : 

First  in  herself  loud,  but  opposed  with  banks  and  rocks,  she  roars, 
And  all  her  back  in  bristles  set,  spits  everyway  her  foam. 

Chapman. 

4 Georg.,  iii,  237. 

5  Not  more  with  madness,  rolling  from  afar, 

The  spumy  waves  proclaim  the  watery  war, 

And  mounting  upwards,  with  a mighty  roar, 

March  onwards,  and  insult  the  rocky  shore. 

They  mate  the  middle  region  with  their  height, 

And  fall  no  less  than  with  a mountain’s  weight ; 

The  waters  boil,  and  belching  from  below, 

Black  sands,  as  from  a forceful  engine,  throw. — Dryden. 


PBEFA.CE 


45 


Magnificent  as  Homer’s  storm  is,  I do  not  fear  to 
place  Shakspere’s  in  comparison  : 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy’s  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge  ; 

And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 

Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 

Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deafening  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 

That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 1 

Take  a modern  poet’s  description 2 : 

Loud  hissed  the  sea  beneath  her  lee — my  little  boat  flew  fast, 

But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  the  blast. 

Lord ! what  a roaring  hurricane  beset  the  straining  sail ! 

What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  fierce  assaults  of  hail ! 

What  darksome  caverns  yawn’d  before  !,  what  jagged  steeps  behind  I 
Like  battle  steeds,  with  foamy  manes,  wild  tossing  in  the  wind, 

Each  after  each  sank  down  astern,  exhausted  in  the  chase, 

But  where  it  sank  another  rose  and  galloped  in  its  place  ; 

As  black  as  night — they  turned  to  white,  and  cast  against  the  cloud 
A snowy  sheet,  as  if  each  surge  upturned  a sailor’s  shroud. 

What  painting  can  place  such  a picture  of  a sea- 
storm  before  the  mind  as  is  placed  by  the  descrip- 
tion of  these  poets  h 

Turn  to  the  gentler  image  of  a landscape,  possess- 
ing all  the  picturesque  features  of  which  a cultivated 
country  is  susceptible,  and  listen  to  Lucretius3 : 

Inque  dies  magis  in  inontem  succedere  sylvas 
Cogebant,  infraque  locum  concedere  eultis : 

Prata,  lacus,  rivos,  segetes,  vinetaque  laeta 
Collibus,  et  campis  ut  haberent,  atque  olearum 
Caerula  distinguens  inter  plaga  currere  posset 
Per  tumulos,  et  convalleis,  camposque  profusa  : 

Ut  nunc  esse  vides  vario  distineta  lepore 
Omnia,  quae  pomis  intersita  dulcibus  ornant, 

Arbustisque  tenent  felicibus  obsita  circum4 


1 Henry  IV,  pt.  II,  act  iii,  scene  1. 

2 Hood,  The  Demon  Ship.  3 Lib.  v,  1309-1377. 

4 These  beautiful  lines  are  about  to  lose  much  of  their  charm  in  my 
translation : 

And  day  by  day  unto  the  mountain-top 
The  wood  receded,  and  the  valleys  smiled 
With  culture.  Meadows,  pools  and  rivers, 

Corn  and  glad  vines,  and  olives  with  a band 
Of  grey-blue  foliage  climb,  and  mark  their  course 


46 


LAOCOON 


Juvenal’s  picture  of  the  Egerian  grot  affords 
another  illustration*  1 : 

In  vallem  Egeriae  descendimus  et  speluncas 
Dissimiles  veris.  Quanto  praestantius  esset 
Numen  aquae,  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undas 
Herba,  nec  ingenuum  violarent  marmora  tophum  ? 2 

So  Ovid’s  Valley  and  Cave  of  Diana3 : 

Vallis  erat,  piceis  et  acuta  densa  cupressu, 

Nomine  Gargaphie,  succinctae  sacra  Dianae  ; 

Cujus  in  extreme  est  antrum  nemorale  recessu, 

Arte  laboratum  nulla  ; simulaverat  artem 
Ingenio  natura  suo  ; nam  pumice  vivo, 

Et  levibus  tophis  navitum  duxerat  arcum. 

Fons  sonat  a dextra,  tenui  perlucidus  unda, 

Margine  gramineo  patulos  incinctus  hiatus. 

Hie  Dea  silvarum,  venatu  fessa,  solebat 
Virgineos  artus  liquido  perfundere  rore  4 

And  again  his  Hymettus  5 : 


Spread  over  knoll  and  valley.  All  around 
Smiles  with  a varied  grace,  while  flowering  shrubs, 
Apples,  and  fruit-trees  beautify  the  ground. 

1  Juvenalis  Satirae,  Sat.  iii,  17. 

2  Thence  slowly  winding  down  the  vale,  we  view 
The  Egerian  grots — ah,  how  unlike  the  true  ! 

Nymph  of  the  Spring  ! more  honour’d  hadst  thou  been, 

If,  free  from  art,  an  edge  of  living  green 
Thy  bubbling  fount  had  circumscribed  alone, 

And  marble  ne’er  profaned  the  native  stone. 

Gifford’s  Juvenal , Sat.  iii,  27. 

3  Ovid,  Met.,  lib.  iii,  155. 

4  Down  in  a vale  with  pine  and  cypress  clad, 

Refresh’d  with  gentle  winds,  and  brown  with  shade 
The  chaste  Diana’s  private  haunt  there  stood, 

Full  in  the  centre  of  the  darksome  wood, 

A spacious  grotto,  all  around  o’ergrown 
With  hoary  moss,  and  arch’d  with  pumice-stone 
From  out  its  rocky  clefts  the  waters  flow, 

And  trickling  swell  into  the  lake  below. 

Nature  had  everywhere  so  play’d  her  part, 

That  everywhere  she  seemed  to  vie  with  art. 

Addison,  in  Garth’s  Ovid,  p.  357. 

5  Ovid,  Arte  Amandi,  lib.  iii,  687-694. 

Near,  where  his  purple  head  Hymettus  shews 
And  flow’ring  hills,  a sacred  fountain  flows, 

With  soft  and  verdant  turf  the  soil  is  spread 
And  sweetly-smelling  shrubs  the  ground  o’ershade, 


PREFACE 


47 


Est  prope  purpureos  colles  florentis  Hymetti 
Fons  sacer,  et  viridi  caespite  mollis  humus. 

Silva  nemus  non  aita  facit ; tegit  arbutus  herbam, 

Ros  maris,  et  lauri,  nigraque  myrtus  olent ; 

Nec  densae  foliis  buxi,  fragilesque  myricae, 

Nec  tenues  cytisi,  cultaque  pinus  abest. 

Lenibus  impulsae  Zephyris  auraque  salubri 
Tot  generum  frondes,  herbaque  summa  tremunt. 

I pass  by  the  pictures  to  be  found  in  the  pastoral 
epics  of  Theocritus  and  in  the  Greek  Tragedians, 
such  as  the  picture  of  Colonos 1 in  Sophocles,  and 
those  in  the  Ion 2 and  the  Bacchae 3 of  Euripides, 
Aelian’s  vale  of  Tempe,4  with  the  detailed  de- 
scription of  natural  scenery,  in  which  he  uses  the 
remarkable  expressions,  dLaypd\pcofj.eu  Kal  Bianxdo-cafjLGy, 
depingamus  atque  effingamus : ‘ Let  us  paint  and  let 
us  mould  \ For  the  Greeks5 6,  though  they  did  not 
cultivate  according  to  our  modern  ideas,  as  a distinct 
branch  of  aesthetics,  the  art  of  describing  natural 
scenery,  though  they  had  not  the  counterpart  of 
our  word  ‘ picturesque 1 6,  and  were  less  occupied 
with  describing  the  phenomena  of  inanimate  nature 


There,  rosemary  and  bays  their  odours  join. 

And  with  the  fragrant  myrtle’s  scent  combine, 

There,  tamarisks  with  thick-leav’d  box  are  found, 

And  cytisus,  and  garden-pines,  abound. 

While  thro’  the  boughs,  soft  winds  of  Zephyr  pass, 

Tremble  the  leaves  and  tender  tops  of  grass. 

Dryden,  in  Garth’s  Ovid. 

1 Oed.  Col.  668,  etc.  2 Ion,  82. 

3 Bacchae,  1045.  4 i.  191. 

5 See  the  first  and  second  chapters  of  the  second  volume  of  Hum- 

boldt’s Kosmos. 

6 ‘ The  feelings  of  satisfaction  which  result  from  the  joint  energy  of 
the  understanding  and  phantasy,  are  principally  those  of  beauty  and 
sublimity ; and  the  judgments  which  pronounce  an  object  to  be 
sublime , beautiful,  &c.,  are  called  by  a metaphorical  expression  Judg- 
ments of  Taste.  These  have  also  been  styled  JEsthetical  Judgments  ; 
and  the  term  cestlietical  has  now,  especially  among  the  philosophers  of 
Germany,  nearly  superseded  the  term  taste.  Both  terms  are  unsatis- 
factory. The  gratification  we  feel  in  the  beautiful,  the  sublime,  the 
picturesque,  &c.,  is  purely  contemplative,  that  is,  the  feeling  of 
pleasure  which  we  then  experience,  arises  solely  from  the  considera- 
tion of  the  object  and  altogether  apart  from  any  desire  of,  or  satisfac- 
tion in,  its  possession’.  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  Lectures  on  Metaphysics: 
Lect.  XLVI.  Compare  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  vol.  ii,  78,  end  of  13th 
Discourse. 


48 


LAOCOON 


than  the  actions  and  passions  of  men1,  were  not,  as 
has  been  vulgarly  supposed,  wanting  in  sensibility 
to  the  charms  of  nature.  It  is  true  that  the 
Christian,  dwelling  on  the  greatness  and  goodness 
of  the  Creator,  who  has  made  ‘ all  nature  beauty  to 
the  eye  and  music  to  the  ear’,  delighted  in  those 
descriptions  of  that  beauty  which  are  to  be  found 
in  the  works  of  the  early  Greek  Fathers. 

The  sensibility  to  natural  beauty  was  of  later 
growth  among  the  Latins  than  the  Greeks,  and. 
scarcely  appeared  before  the  poets  and  writers  of 
the  Augustan  age.  Yirgil  and  Lucretius  and  Ovid 
have  been  cited.  Ovid  abounds  in  passages  of 
picturesque  description  ; and  though  such  passages 
are  rare  in  the  prose  writers  of  Eome  as  of  Greece, 
many  are  to  be  found  in  the  letters  of  Cicero.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  mention  Pliny 2 ; but  I do 
not  think  his  description  of  the  Clitumnus  could 
be  transferred  to  canvass,  although  it  must  be 
admitted  that  when  he  describes,  with  great 
minuteness  of  detail,  the  picturesque  features  of 
his  villa  at  Tusci,  he  sums  it  up,  as  it  were,  in  one 
sentence,  saying  it  gives  you  the  pleasure  of  a well 
painted  landscape3. 

How  wonderfully  Poetry,  Music,  and  Painting, 
are  all  blended  together,  and  all  present  to  us,  in 
this  one  description  of  a midsummer  night  in  these 
lines : 

1 Socrates  tells  Phaedrus  that  the  country  and  trees  do  not  teach 
him  anything,  and  that  as  a lover  of  knowledge  he  prefers  men  and 
cities,  2vyytV<o<r/ce  Se  p. ot,  to  apurre*  <Jn\op.a6r)<;  yap  etpu.  ra  p.e v ofiv 
Xiopia,  Kal  ra  Sej/Spa  ovSeu  /a’  e0e'A.ei  SiSacnceii/,  oi  8’  ev  tw  acrret  avdpu) ttoi. 
(Platonis  Opera,  ed.  Stalbaum,  vol.  iv,  p.  20,  D.  Phaedrus.)  dhe 
banished  Duke  in  As  You  Like  It  had  another  philosophy  : 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. — Act  ii,  sc.  1. 

2 Lib.  viii,  Epist.  ix. 

s ‘ Magnam  capies  voluptatem  si  hunc  regionis  situm  ex  monte  pro- 
spexeris.  Neque  enim  terras  tibi,  sed  formam  aliquam,  ad  eximiam 
pulchritudinem  pictam  videberis  cernere  ; ea  varietate  ea  descripticne 
quocumque  inciderint  oculi,  reficiuntur  \ Lib.  v,  Ep.  vi,  13. 


PREFACE 


49 


And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  !* 

Here  \*  ill  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  ; soft  stillness  and  the  night. 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Sit,  Jessica : Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold 1. 

No  painting  could  describe  the  Dover  cliff  like 
Edgar2,  though  in  this  marvellous  passage  the 
power  of  delineating  natural  beauty  is  less  remark- 
able than  the  power  of  describing  the  height  so 
as  to  make  the  brain  of  the  reader  dizzy.  Not  less 
power  does  Imogen,  enquiring  after  her  husband’s 
departure,  exhibit  of  painting  in  words  the  vanish- 
ing point  of  distance.  In  all  these  instances,  especi- 
ally the  two  last,  the  poet  reaps  the  full  advantage 
of  his  successive  description  over  the  moment  of  the 
painter. 

One  more  example.  The  encampment  of  the 
hosts  before  the  day  of  battle  may  be  fraught  with 
circumstances  of  which  the  painter  may  avail 
himself  : but  could  he  paint  what  follows  ? 

From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of  night, 

The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds ; 

That  the  fixt  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other’s  watch  : 

Fire  answers  fire  ; and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other’s  umbered  face  ; 

Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 
Piercing  the  Night’s  dull  ear  ; and  from  the  tents 
The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 

With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 

Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation  3. 

The  picturesque  descriptions  in  the  Paradise  Lost 
are  familiar  to  the  reader  of  Milton ; in  them,  indeed, 
many  principles  of  modern  landscape,  in  which  art 
imitates,  cultivates,  and  improves  nature,  are  to  be 
found.  The  subject  is  a very  large  one,  and  the 
temptation  to  enter  more  at  length  upon  it  must  be 
resisted 4.  The  English  writers  in  prose  offer  many 

1 Merchant  of  Venice , act  v,  sc.  1.  2 See  p.  324. 

2 Henry  the  Fifth , act  ir  : Chorus. 

4 I abstain  from  noticing  the  pictures  in  Italian  Poetry  and  tho 
Lusiad  of  Cainoens,  so  much  esteemed  by  Humboldt,  Kosmos , 2, 1. 

E 


50 


LAOCOON 


illustrations  of  the  position  for  which  I am  con- 
tending, but  I will  confine  myself  to  an  extract 
from  the  prose  of  that  great  painter  in  prose  and 
poetry,  Sir  Walter  Scott.  His  novels  abound  in 
passages  of  the  highest  picturesque  merit.  Often 
what  appears  as  a single  picture  in  his  description, 
cannot  be  represented  on  canvass  otherwise  than 
by  a series  of  paintings,  and  then  with  a loss  of 
effect. 

Take  for  example  the  following  extract  from  the 
first  chapter  of  Ivanhoe  : 

The  sun  was  setting  upon  one  of  the  rich  grassy  glades 
of  that  forest  which  we  have  mentioned  in  the  beginning 
of  the  chapter.  Hundreds  of  broad  short-stemmed  oaks, 
which  had  witnessed  perhaps  the  stately  march  of  the 
Roman  soldiery,  flung  their  broad  gnarled  arms  over  a 
thick  carpet  of  the  most  delicious  green  sward  : in  some 
places  they  were  intermingled  with  beeches,  hollies,  and 
copsewood  of  various  descriptions,  so  closely  as  totally  to 
intercept  the  level  beams  of  the  sinking  sun  : in  others 
they  receded  from  each  other,  forming  those  long  sweep- 
ing vistas,  in  the  intricacy  of  which  the  eye  delights  to 
lose  itself,  while  imagination  considers  them  as  the  paths 
to  yet  wilder  scenes  of  sylvan  solitude.  Here  the  red  rays 
of  the  sun  shot  a broken  and  discoloured  light,  that  par- 
tially hung  upon  the  shattered  boughs  and  mossy  trunks 
of  the  trees,  and  then  they  illuminated  in  brilliant  patches 
the  portions  of  turf  to  which  they  made  their  way.  A 
considerable  open  space,  in  the  midst  of  this  glade,  seemed 
formerly  to  have  been  dedicated  to  the  rites  of  Druidical 
superstition  ; for  on  the  summit  of  a hillock,  so  regular  as 
to  seem  artificial,  there  still  remained  part  of  a circle  of 
rough  unhewn  stones,  of  large  dimensions.  Seven  stood 
upright ; the  rest  had  been  dislodged  from  their  places, 
probably  by  the  zeal  of  some  convert  to  Christianity,  and 
lay,  some  prostrate  near  their  former  site,  and  others  on 
the  side  of  the  hill.  One  large  stone  only  had  found  its 
way  to  the  bottom,  and  in  stopping  the  course  of  a small 
brook,  which  glided  smoothly  round  the  foot  of  the 
eminence,  gave,  by  its  opposition,  a feeble  voice  of  murmur 
to  the  placid  and  elsewhere  silent  streamlet.  The  human 


PREFACE  51 

figures  which  completed  this  landscape  were  in  number 
two  \ 

One  more  example  from  the  opening  of  a chapter 
in  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  : 

If  I were  to  chuse  a spot  from  which  the  rising  or  setting 
sun  could  be  seen  to  the  greatest  possible  advantage,  it 
would  be  that  wild  walk  winding  around  the  foot  of  the 
high  belt  of  semi-circular  rocks  called  Salisbury  Craigs, 
and  marking  the  verge  of  the  steep  descent,  which  slopes 
down  into  the  glen,  on  the  South-eastern  side  of  the  city  of 
Edinburgh.  The  prospect  in  its  general  outline  commands 
a close-built  high-piled  city,  stretching  itself  out  beneath 
in  a form  which  to  a romantic  imagination  may  be  sup- 
posed to  represent  that  of  a dragon  ; now  a noble  arm  of 
the  sea,  with  its  rocks,  isles,  distant  shores,  and  boundary 
of  mountains : and  now  a fair  and  fertile  champaign 
country,  varied  with  hill,  dale,  and  rock,  and  skirted  by 
the  varied  and  picturesque  ridge  of  the  Pentland  Moun- 
tains. But  as  the  path  gently  circles  round  the  base  of 
the  cliflfe,  the  prospect,  composed  as  it  is  of  these  enchant- 
ing and  sublime  objects,  changes  at  every  step,  and  presents 
them  blended  with  or  divided  from  each  other  in  every 
possible  variety  which  can  gratify  the  eye  and  the  imagin- 
ation. When  a piece  of  scenery  so  beautiful  yet  so  varied, 
so  exciting  by  its  intricacy  and  yet  so  sublime,  is  lighted 
up  by  the  tints  of  morning  and  evening,  and  displays  all 
that  variety  of  shadowy  depth  exchanged  with  partial 
brilliancy,  which  gives  character  even  to  the  tamest  of 
landscapes,  the  effect  approaches  nearer  to  enchantment. 

In  these  extracts  the  descriptive  power  of  the 
painter  is,  I think,  surpassed.  But  there  are  many 
other  passages  where  the  author  is  the  rival  of  the 
painter,  such  as  the  approach  to  the  Baron  of 
Bradwardine’s  Tully  Veolan2,  the  return  of  Morton3 
to  Scotland  by  the  winding  descent  which  led  to 
Bothwell  Castle  and  the  Clyde,  the  spot  in  which 
Rob  Roy,  the  morning  after  his  escape,  spreads  the 
morning  banquet  for  Osbaldistone 4. 

1 Chap,  i,  p.  6.  2 Waverley , i,  74. 

3 Old  Mortality , 8.  108.  * R0b  Roy , 3.  280. 


52 


LAOCOON 


My  conclusion  is,  even  from  these  scanty  pre- 
misses— but  they  might  be  very  greatly  increased 
— that  Lessing  is  mistaken  in  saying  the  poet, 
whether  he  write  in  poetry  or  prose,  ought  not  to 
paint  or  describe  natural  scenery 1 ; that,  on  the 
contrary,  the  poet  may  often  rival  and  sometimes 
surpass  the  painter  even  in  this  department  of  art. 

3.  It  remains  only  to  draw  the  reader’s  attention 
to  Lessing’s  estimate  of  his  own  powers : Lessing, 
Gervinus  says2,  was  not  deceived  about  himself. 
You  may  desiderate  certain  gifts  in  him  : but  the 
use  which  he  made  of  those  he  had  is  an  everlasting 

example  to  us He  knew  that  he  was  a cold 

thinker,  that  he  had  none  of  that  enthuiasm  which 
he  called  the  a/e/dz,  the  crown  and  blossom  of  the 
fine  arts,  the  want  of  which  in  a poet  it  would  be  a 
sin  to  suspect.  He  makes  this  confession  at  the 
close  of  his  Dramaturgic , and  resolves  to  devote  his 
intellect  to  science  and  criticism.  Nevertheless, 
adds  Gervinus,  let  no  man  of  mere  sesthetical  pur- 
suits, or  historian  of  literature  venture,  out  of  the 
wisdom  of  his  own  conceit,  to  decide  hastily  against 
Lessing ; let  him  be  judged  by  his  own  never  to  be 
forgotten  words : 

6 I am’ — such  is  his  explanation — ‘neither  an  actor  nor 
a poet.  People  have  often  done  me  the  honour  of  calling 
me  the  latter  : but  only  because  they  do  not  know  what 
I really  am.  It  is  by  no  means  an  inference  to  be  drawn 
from  a few  dramatic  essays  which  I have  attempted.  Not 
every  one  who  takes  a brush  in  his  hand  and  lays  on 
colours  is  a painter.  The  earliest  of  these  essays  were 
written  in  those  years  in  which  one  mistook  joyousness 
and  levity  for  genius.  For  whatever  is  tolerable  in  the 
later  essays  I am  well  convinced  I am  entirely  and  alone 
indebted  to  criticism.  I do  not  feel  the  living  spring 
within  me  which  works  its  way  up  by  its  own  strength, 
which  by  its  own  strength  shoots  out  into  such  rich, 
fresh,  pure  rays.  I am  obliged  to  squeeze  everything  out 

1 See  pp.  141,  143,  292. 

2 Gesch.  der  deutschen  Dichtung,  4.  348. 


PEEFACE 


53 


of  myself  by  pressure  and  conduit  pipes.  I should  have 
been  so  poor,  so  cold,  so  shortsighted,  if  I had  not  learnt 
in  some  measure  to  borrow  modestly  from  the  treasures 
of  others,  to  warm  myself  at  a stranger’s  fire,  and  to 
strengthen  my  vision  by  the  glasses  of  art.  I have  there- 
fore always  been  ashamed  and  vexed  when  I have  heard 
or  read  anything  which  found  fault  with  criticism.  It 
ought  to  stimulate  genius,  and  I flatter  myself  that  I 
have  gained  something  from  it  which  comes  very  near  to 
genius.  I am  a lame  man  who  cannot  p ssibly  be  edified 
by  a satire  upon  crutches.  But  of  course  I am  aware 
that  crutches  may  help  the  lame  to  move,  though  they 
cannot  make  him  run  and  so  it  is  with  criticism  ’. 


LAOCOON 


INTRODUCTION 

The  first  person  who  compared  Painting  and 
Poetry  with  each  other  was  a man  of  fine  feeling, 
who  perceived  that  both  these  arts  produced  upon 
him  a similar  effect. 

Both,  he  felt,  placed  before  us  things  absent  as  I 
present,  appearance  as  reality.  Both  deceived,  and  t 
the  deceit  of  both  was  pleasing.  A second  person  J 
sought  to  penetrate  into  the  inner  nature  of  this 
pleasure,  and  discovered  that  in  both  it  flowed  from 
one  and  the  same  source.  The  beautiful,  the  notion 
of  which  we  first  derive  from  corporeal  objects,  has 
general  rules  applicable  to  various  things ; to  actions, 
to  thoughts,  as  well  as  to  forms.  A third  person, 
who  reflected  upon  the  value  and  upon  the  dis- 
tribution of  these  general  rules,  remarked  that  some 
of  them  had  prevailed  more  in  Painting  and  others 
more  in  Poetry,  and  that  with  respect  to  the  latter 
rules,  Poetry  could  be  aided  by  the  illustrations  and 
examples  supplied  by  Painting  ; with  respect  to 
the  former  rules,  Painting  could  be  aided  by  the 
illustrations  and  examples  supplied  by  Poetry. 

The  first  was  an  amateur;  the  second  was  a 
philosopher;  the  third  was  a critic. 

It  was  not  easy  for  the  two  first  to  make  a wrong 
use  either  of  their  feeling  or  of  their  reasoning.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  principal  force  of  the  remarks 
of  the  critic  depends  upon  the  correctness  of  their 
application  to  the  particular  case,  and  it  would  be 
astonishing,  inasmuch  as  for  one  really  acute,  you 

55 


56 


LAOCOON 


will  find  fifty  merely  witty  critics,  if  this  application 
had  always  been  made  with  all  the  caution  requisite 
to  hold  the  scales  equal  between  the  two  Arts. 
Apelles  and  Protogenes,  in  their  lost  writings  upon 
Painting  confirmed  and  illustrated  the  rules  relating 
to  it  by  the  rules  of  Poetry,  which  had  been  already 
established;  so  that  we  may  be  assured  that  in 
them  the  same  moderation  and  accuracy  prevailed, 
which  at  the  present  day  we  see  in  the  works  of 
Aristotle,  Cicero,  Horace,  and  Quintilian,  when  they 
apply  the  principles  and  experience  of  Painting  to 
Eloquence  and  to  Poetry. 

f It  is  the  privilege  of  the  Ancients  in  no  one  thing 
" to  do  too  much  or  too  little. 

But  we  moderns  have  often  believed  that  in  many 
of  our  works  we  have  surpassed  them,  because  we 
have  changed  their  little  byways  of  pleasure  into 
highways,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  led  by  these 
shorter  and  safer  highways  into  paths  which  end  in 
a wilderness. 

The  dazzling  antithesis  of  the  Greek  Voltaire, 
that  Painting  is  dumb  Poetry,  and  Poetry  eloquent 
Painting,  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  rudimental 
work.  It  was  a smart  saying,  like  many  others  of 
Simonides,  the  true  side  of  which  is  so  brilliant  that 
we  think  it  necessary  to  overlook  the  want  of 
precision  and  the  falseness  which  accompany  it. 

But  the  Ancients  did  not  overlook  this  ; for  while 
they  confirmed  the  dictum  of  Simonides  as  to  the 
effect  produced  by  both  Arts,  they  did  not  forget  to 
inculcate  that,  notwithstanding  the  perfect  simi- 

(larity  of  this  effect,  these  Arts  differed,  as  well  in 
the  object  as  in  the  manner  of  their  imitations 
(''TAt?  Kai  rpfaois  fu/uLyiarecas)  1.  Qm**'*4" 

f ^Nevertheless,  many  of  our  most  modern  critics, 
as  if  they  were  ignorant  of  any  such  distinction, 
have  said  the  crudest  things  in  the  world  upon  the 
i harmony  of  Painting  and  Poetry. 

At  one  time  they  compress  Poetry  within  the 
narrow*  limits  of  Painting : at  another  time  they 


INTRODUCTION  57 

make  Painting  fill  the  whole  wide  sphere  of  Poetry. 
Whatever  is  the  right  of  the  one  must  be  conceded 
to  the  other.  Whatever  is  in  the  one  pleasing,  or 
unpleasing,  must  necessarily  please  or  displease  in 
the  other ; and  full  of  this  idea,  they  pronounce  in 
the  most  confident  tone  the  most  superficial  judg- 
ments, when,  criticising  the  works  of  the  Poet  and 
the  Painter  upon  the  same  subject,  they  consider 
the  difference  of  treatment  to  be  a fault,  which 
fault  they  ascribe  to  the  one  or  the  other  accordingly 
! as  they  happen  to  have  more  taste  for  Poetry  or  for 
Painting. 

This  spurious  criticism  has  partially  corrupted 
even  the  Virtuosos  themselves.  It  has  generated  a 
mania  for  pictorial  description  in  Poetry,  and  for 
allegorical  style  in  Painting  ; while  it  was  sought 
to  render  the  former  a speaking  Picture,  without 
really  knowing  what  could  and  ought  to  be  painted ; 
and  the  latter  a mute  poem  ; not  having  considered 
how  far  general  ideas  are  susceptible  of  expression 
without  departing  from  their  proper  end,  and 
without  falling  into  a purely  arbitrary  style  of 
phraseology. 

To  oppose  this  false  taste,  and  to  counteract  these 
unfounded  opinions,  is  the  principal  object  of  the 
following  observations. 

They  have  arisen  casually,  and  have  grown  to 
their  present  size  rather  in  consequence  of  the 
course  of  my  reading  than  through  any  methodical 
development  of  general  principles.  They  are  rather 
irregular  collectanea  for  a book,  than  a book.  Yet,  I 
flatter  myself  that,  even  as  such,  they  will  not  be 
wholly  despised.  We  Germans  have  no  lack  of 
systematic  treatises.  We  know,  as  well  as  any 
nation  in  the  world,  how,  out  of  some  granted 
definition,  to  arrange  all  that  we  want  to  arrange 
in  the  very  best  order. 

Baumgarten  acknowledged  that  he  was  indebted 
to  Gesner’s  Dictionary  for  the  greater  portion  of 
his  examples  in  his  treatise  on  Aesthetics.  If  my 


58 


LAOCOON 


raisonnement  is  not  as  conclusive  as  Baumgarten’s, 
at  least  my  examples  will  savour  more  of  the 
fountain  head. 

As  I set  out  from  Laocoon,  and  often  return  to 
him,  I have  thought  it  right  to  give  him  a share  in 
the  title  of  the  work.  As  to  other  little  digressions 
upon  several  points,  of  the  ancient  history  of  the 
Arts,  they  contribute  little  to  my  main  object,  and 
they  are  only  allowed  to  remain  here  because  I 
cannot  hope  to  find  a better  place  for  them 
elsewhere. 

I should  also  mention  that  under  the  name  of 
Painting  I include  generally  the  plastic  Arts  ; and 
I do  not  deny  that  under  the  name  of  Poetry  I may 
also  have  had  some  regard  to  the  other  Arts  which 
have  the  characteristic  of  progressive  imitation. 


CHAPTER  I 


Winkelmann  considers  that  the  characteristics 
of  general  excellence,  which  are  to  be  found  in 
the  masterpieces  of  Greek  painting  and  sculpture, 
consist  of  a noble  simplicity:  and  quiet  grandeur  as  t 
well  in  their  attitude  as  in  their  expression.  • 

As  the  depths  of  the  sea,  he  says1,  always  remain  at 
rest,  let  the  surface  rage  as  it  will,  even  so  does  the  ex- 
pression in  the  Greek  figures  show  through  all  suffering  f 
a great  and  calm  soul.  This  soul  is  pourtrayed  in  thej 
countenance  of  Laocoon,  and  not  in  the  countenance  alone, 
notwithstanding  the  intense  severity  of  his  suffering. 
The  pain  which  discovers  itself  in  all  the  muscles  and 
sinews  of  the  body,  and  which  from  these  only,  without 
considering  the  face  and  other  parts,  we  seem  to  perceive 
in  the  agonised  expression  of  the  belly  alone ; this  pain, 

I say,  expresses  itself  nevertheless  without  any  torture 
in  the  face  or  in  the  general  position.  He  utters  no  I 
horrible  scream  as  Virgil’s  verse  makes  his  Laocoon  utter  : 1 
the  opening  of  his  mouth  does  not  show  this  : it  is  rather  | 
a subdued  groan  of  anguish,  as  Sadolet2  describes  it. 
Pain  of  body  and  greatness  of  soul  are  distributed  with 
equal  strength  throughout  the  whole  figure  and  in  equal 
proportions.  Laocoon  suffers,  but  he  suffers  like  the 
Philoctetes  of  Sophocles : his  misery  touches  our  very  | 
souls  ; but  we  desire  to  be  able  to  bear  suffering  as  this  j 
great  man  bears  it. 

The  expression  of  so  great  a soul  goes  far  beyond  a 
representation  of  natural  beauty.  The  Artist  must  have 
felt  in  himself  the  strength  of  the  soul  which  he  has 
impressed  upon  his  marble.  Greece  had  artists  and 
philosophers  blended  in  one  person,  and  more  than  one 
Mctrodorus3.  Philosophy  gave  her  hand  to  Art,  and 
breathed  into  the  forms  of  it  no  common  soul,  etc. 

The  observation  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of 
this  theory,  namely,  that  pain  does  not  show  itself  I 
59  ' 


60 


LAOCOON 


in  the  countenance  of  Laocoon  with  that  furious 
vehemence,  which  from  the  intensity  of  it  we  should 
expect,  is  perfectly  true.  It  is  also  indisputable 
that  in  this  respect  where  a man  of  half  knowledge 
would  pronounce  that  the  Artist  had  not  attained 
to  nature  and  had  not  reached  the  true  pathos  of 
suffering  : in  this  very  respect,  I say,  the  wisdom  of 
the  observation  is  most  clearly  manifest. 

It  is  only  as  to  the  fundamental  reason  on  which 
Winkelmann  founds  this  wise  observation,  and  as 
to  the  generality  of  the  rule  which. he  extracts  from 
this  fundamental  reason  that  I venture  to  differ 
,from  him. 

I confess  that  the  unfavourable  side  glance  which 
he  casts  upon  Virgil  startled  me  at  first,  and  in  the 
next  place  the  comparison  with  Philoctetes.  From 
this  I will  take  my  point  of  departure,  and  write 
down  my  thoughts  in  the  order  in  which  they  have 
been  developed. 

4 Laocoon  suffers  like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles’. 
How  does  he  suffer  ? It  is  strange  that  his  suffer- 
ings have  left  so  different  an  impression  upon  us. 
The  lamentations,  the  screams,  the  wild  curses  with 
which  his  pain  filled  the  camp,  and  disturbed  all 
the  sacrifices,  all  the  holy  acts,  resounded  no  less 
dreadfully  in  the  desert  island,  and  were  the  cause 
of  his  being  banished  to  it.  What  tones  of  dejection, 
misery,  and  despair,  with  the  imitation  of  which  the 
Poet  caused  the  theatre  to  resound.  The  third  Act 
of  this  piece  has  been  discovered  to  be  much  shorter 
than  the  others  ; a plain  proof,  say  the  critics4,  that 
the  Ancients  troubled  themselves  very  little  about 
the  equal  length  of  the  Acts 5.  That  I too  believe  ; 
but  I should  prefer  to  found  my  belief  upon  another 
example.  The  piteous  exclamations,  the  moaning, 
the  broken  off  & & </>e0  <xtt aral  & fioi  /aol ; whole  lines 
full  of  Traira  iraira,  of  which  this  Act  consists,  and 
which  must  have  been  declaimed  with  other  pro- 
longations and  pauses  than  would  be  needed  for  a 
continuous  reading,  have,  in  the  representation  of 


CHAPTER  I 


61 


this  Act,  doubtless  caused  it  to  continue  as  long  as 
the  others.  It  appears  much  shorter  on  paper  to 
the  reader  than  it  would  have  appeared  to  the 
spectators. 

To  scream  is  the  natural  expression  of  bodily  pain. 
Homer’s  wounded  warriors  not  unfrequently  fall 
with  a scream  to  the  earth.  The  wounded  Venus 
screams  loudly, — not  in  order  that  by  this  scream 
she  may  appear  as  the  soft  goddess  of  pleasure,  but 
rather  to  give  her  a right  to  a suffering  nature  6. 

| For  even  the  brazen  Mars,  when  he  felt  the  lance  of 
!,;  Diomede,  shrieks  as  dreadfully  as  ten  thousand 
raging  warriors  would  shriek  at  once — so  dreadfully 
that  both  armies  were  terrified 7. 

High  as  Homer  exalts  his  heroes  above  human 
nature,  yet  they  remain  true  to  it  whenever  there 
is  a question  of  the  feeling  of  anguish  or  suffering, 
or  of  the  expression  of  that  feeling  by  screams  or 
tears  or  invectives.  In  their  deeds  they  are  creatures 
of  a higher  kind ; in  their  feelings  they  are  true 
men. 

I am  aware  that  we,  the  refined  Europeans  of  a 
wiser  posterity,  know  how  to  command  better  our 
mouths  and  our  eyes.  High  breeding  and  decency 
forbid  screams  and  tears.  The  active  courage  of 
the  first  rough  ages  of  the  world  has  been  changed, 
in  our  day,  into  the  courage  of  suffering.  Yet  even 
our  forefathers  were  greater  in  the  latter  than  in 
the  former.  But  our  forefathers  were  barbarians. 
To  suppress  all  expression  of  pain,  to  meet  the 
stroke  of  death  with  unchanged  eye,  to  die  smiling 
under  the  asp’s  bite,  to  abstain  from  bewailing  our 
sins  or  the  loss  of  our  dearest  friend,  are  traits  of 
the  old  hero  courage  of  the  Northmen 8.  Talnatako 
laid  down  a law  to  his  Gomsburgers  that  they 
should  fear  nothing,  and  that  the  word  fear  should 
not  once  be  named  amongst  them. 

Not  so  the  Greek  ! He  had  feelings  and  fear  ; he 
uttered  his  anguish  and  his  sorrow  ; lie  was  ashamed 
of  no  mortal  weakness  ; none  ought  to  withhold  him 


62 


LAOCOON 


from  the  path  of  honour  or  the  fulfilment  of  his 
duty.  What  the  barbarian  derived  from  savageness 
and  from  being  inured  to  hardship,  principle  pro- 
duced in  the  Greek.  In  him  heroism  was  like  the 
concealed  sparks  in  the  flint,  which  sleep  in  peace 
so  long  as  no  external  force  awakens  them9,  and 
which  do  not  take  from  the  stone  either  its  clearness 
or  its  coldness.  In  the  barbarian,  heroism  was  a 
bright  devouring  flame  which  was  always  raging, 
and  devoured,  or  at  least  obscured,  every  other 
good  quality  he  possessed.  When  Homer  leads  the 
Trojans  with  a wild  shout,  and  the  Greeks,  on  the 
other  hand,  in  deliberate  stillness  to  the  battle,  the 
commentators  justly  remark  that  by  the  former 
the  poet  intended  to  represent  the  barbarians,  by 
the  latter  the  people  of  civilisation.  I am  surprised 
that  they  have  failed  to  notice  a like  opposition  of 
character  in  another  passage10.  The  rival  hosts 
have  agreed  to  a suspension  of  arms ; they  are 
busied  with  the  burning  of  their  dead,  which  does 
not  take  place  without  many  hot  tears,  daupva  6ep/ici 
X^oyres.  But  Priam  forbids  his  Trojans  to  weep, 
ov8 5 efa  KXaie'lv  Tlpiaiuos  fieyas.  He  forbids  them  to 
weep,  says  Madame  Dacier,  because  he  is  afraid  that 
they  would  enfeeble  themselves,  and  on  the  morrow 
combat  with  diminished  fury.  Well,  but  I ask 
myself,  why  must  Priam  alone  feel  this  anxiety  ? 
Why  does  not  Agamemnon  give  the  same  prohibi- 
tion to  his  Greeks  ? The  meaning  of  the  poet  lies 
deeper.  He  wishes  to  teach  us  that  only  the  civil- 
ised Greeks  can  at  the  same  time  weep  and  be  bold  : 
while  the  uncivilised  Trojan  cannot  weep  without 
having  first  stifled  his  manhood.  N efiecraw/uai  ye  p.ev 
ovhev  KXaie'iv  he  makes,  in  another  place,  the  discreet 
son  of  the  wise  Nestor  say  n. 

It  is  remarkable  that  out  of  the  few  Tragedies 
which  have  come  to  us  from  antiquity,  there  are 
only  two  in  which  bodily  pain  is  not  the  least  part 
of  the  misfortune  which  affects  the  suffering  hero. 
Besides  Philoctetes  there  is  the  dying  Hercules. 


CHAPTER  I 


63 


He  also  is  made  by  Sophocles  to  complain,  whine, 
weep,  and  scream.  Thanks  to  our  clever  neighbours, 
those  masters  of  the  4 convenable  ’,  no  longer  can  a 
whining  Philoctetes,  a screaming  Hercules,  those 
most  ridiculous  and  intolerable  personages  appear 
on  the  stage.  It  is  true  that  one  of  their  latest 
Poets  has  ventured  on  a Philoctetes.  But  would  he 
venture  to  show  us  a real  Philoctetes  ? 12. 

Laocoon  himself  is  mentioned  among  the  plays  of 
Sophocles.  If  fate  had  only  spared  us  this  Laocoon  ! 
From  the  slight  notices  of  some  old  Grammarians 
we  cannot  draw  any  inference  as  to  how  the  Poet 
treated  this  subject ; of  this  I am  assured,  that  he 
would  not  have  described  Laocoon  as  more  stoical 
than  Philoctetes  and  Hercules.  Everything  stoical 
is  unsuited  to  the  stage,  and  our  sympathy  is  always 
proportioned  to  the  suffering  wdiich  the  object  of 
interest  expresses.  If  we  observe  that  he  bears 
suffering  with  a great  soul,  this  great  soul  will,  it  is 
true,  awaken  our  wonderment ; but  wonderment  is  a 
cold  affection  : the  inert  amazement  produced  by  it 
is  excluded  by  every  warmer  passion,  as  well  as  by 
every  more  distinct  representation  of  the  idea. 

And  now  I come  to jny_conclusion.  If  it  be  true  \ 
that  the  cry  which  arises  fromTHe  sensation  of  bodily 
suffering,  especially  according  to  the  old  Greek  ' 
fashion  of  thinking,  may  well  consist  with  a great 
soul,  then  the  outward"  expression  of  such  a soul 
cannot  be  the  cause  why — notwithstanding  it— the 
artist  should  not  imitate  in  his  marble  this  cry  ; 
but  there  must  be  another  cause  why,  in  this  respect, 
lie  differs  from  his  rival  the  Poet,  who  has  very  good 
reasons  for  expressing  this  cry. 


CHAPTEE  II 


Be  it  fable  or  history  that  Love  caused  the  first 
attempt  of  the  creative  Art,  thus  much  is  certain, 
that  it  was  never  weary  of  assisting  the  great  old 
Masters  ; for  although  now  the  scope  of  Painting  is 
enlarged  so  as  to  be  more  especially  the  art  which 
imitates  bodies  upon  flat  surfaces,  yet  the  wise  Greek 
placed  it  within  much  narrower  limits  and  confined 
it  to  the  imitation  of  beautiful  bodies.  His  Painter 
painted  nothing  but  the  beautiful ; even  the  com- 
mon type  of  the  beautiful,  the  beautiful  of  an  in- 
ferior kind,  was  to  him  only  an  accidental  object 
for  the  exercise  of  his  practice  and  for  his  recreation. 
The  perfection  of  the  object  itself  must  be  the  thing 
which  enraptures  him  : he  was  too  great  to  require 
of  those  who  contemplated  him  that  they  should  be 
content  with  the  cold  satisfaction  arising  from  the 
sight  of  a successful  resemblance,  or  from  reflection 
upon  the  skill  of  the  artist  producing  it ; to  his  Art 
nothing  was  dearer,  nothing  seemed  to  him  nobler 
than  the  object  and  end  of  Art  itself. 

/ ‘Who  would  paint  you  when  nobody  will  look 
at  you  ? 5 says  the  old  epigrammatist  of  a very  ugly 
man 1.  Many  modern  artists  would  say,  4 Be  as  ugly 
as  it  is  possible  to  be,  I will  nevertheless  paint  you, 
though  no  one  will  willingly  look  at  you,  yet  they 
will  willingly  look  at  my  picture  ; not  because  it 
reproduces  you,  but  because  it  is  a proof  of  my 
skill  which  can  so  exactly  imitate  so  hideous  an 
object  \ 

In  truth  the  connection  between  this  extravagant 
boasting  and  a fatal  dexterity,  which  is  not  enno- 
bled by  the  worth  of  the  object,  is  only  too  natural ; 
even  the  Greeks  have  had  their  Pauson  and  their 

64 


CHAPTER  II 


65 


Pyreicus.2  They  had  them,  but  they  passed  severe 
judgment  upon  them.  Pauson,  who  confined  him- 
self to  the  beautiful  of  ordinary  nature,  whose  low 
taste  most  congenially  expressed 3 the  deficient  and 
the  hateful,  lived  in  the  most  sordid  poverty4 ; and 
Pyreicus,  who  painted  barbers’  rooms,  dirty  work- 
shops, donkeys,  and  kitchen  vegetables  with  all  the 
diligence  of  a Dutch  painter,  as  if  such  things  in 
nature  had  so  much  fascination  and  were  so  rarely 
seen,  obtained  the  nickname  of  4 'PwirapSypcupos  ’,  the 
filth  painter  5 ; although  the  rich  voluptuary  bought 
his  works  at  extravagant  prices,  thus  coming  to  the 
help  of  their  utter  worthlessness  by  impressing  upon 
them  a fictitious  value.  Governments  themselves 
have  not  thought  it  unworthy  of  their  vigilance  to 
restrain  by  force  the  artist  within  his  proper  sphere. 
The  law  of  the  Thebans,  which  ordered  the  imita- 
tion of  the  beautiful  and  forbad  the  imitation  of 
the  ugly,  is  well  known.  It  was  no  law  against  the 
bungler,  which  it  was  generally  supposed  to  be,  even 
by  Junius  6.  It  condemned  the  Greek  Ghezzi7,  the  \ 
unworthy  trick  of  Art  to  attain  a likeness  through 
an  exaggeration  of  the  uglier  parts  of  the  original 
— in  a word,  the  caricature. 

F rom  the  spirit  of  the  beautiful  also  flowed  the  law 
of  the  Olympic  judges.  Every  Olympian  conqueror 
obtained  a statue,  but  an  Iconic  was  only  granted 
to  him  who  had  been  three  times  a conqueror 8. 
Portraits  of  the  moderately  successful  were  not 
allowed  to  abound  among  works  of  Art,  for  although 
even  the  portrait  approached  to  the  ideal,  never- 
theless the  likeness  was  the  dominant  circumstance  ; 
it  is  the  ideal  of  a certain  man,  not  the  ideal  of  a 
man  generally. 

We  smile  when  we  hear  that  with  the  Ancients  \ 
even  the  Arts  were  subjected  to  civil  laws  ; but  we  ' 
are  not  always  right  when  we  smile.  Unquestion- 
ably laws  should  exercise  no  power  over  sciences, 
for  the  end  of  science  is  truth.  Truth  is  necessary 
for  the  soul,  and  it  would  be  tyranny  to  exercise  the 


F 


66 


LAOCOON 


! slightest  compulsion  with  respect  to  the  satisfaction 
of  this  essential  need. 

The  end  of  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  is  pleasure, 
and  pleasure  can  be  dispensed  with  ; therefore,  it 
may  always  depend  upon  the  law-giver  what  kind  of 
pleasure  he  will  allow,  and  what  amount  of  each 
f kind. 

The  plastic  Arts  especially,  over  and  above  the 
certain  influence  which  they  exercise  upon  the  char- 
acter of  a nation,  are  capable  of  an  effect  which 
requires  the  vigilant  supervision  of  the  law.  If 
beautiful  men  are  the  cause  of  beautiful  statues,  the 
latter,  on  the  other  hand,  have  reacted  upon  the 
former,  and  the  state  has  to  thank  beautiful  statues 
for  beautiful  men. 

With  us  the  tender  imagination  of  the  mother 
appears  to  express  itself  only  in  monsters.  From 
this  point  of  view  I believe  that  in  certain  ancient 
legends,  which  are  generally  thrown  aside  as  untrue, 
there  is  some  truth  to  be  found.  The  mother  of 
Aristomenes,  Aristodaemos,  Alexander  the  Great, 
Scipio,  Augustus,  Galerius,  all  dreamt  during  their 
pregnancy  that  their  husband  was  a snake.  The 
snake  was  the  sign  of  godhead9,  and  the  beautiful 
statues  of  a Bacchus,  an  Apollo,  a Mercury,  a Her- 
cules, were  seldom  without  snakes.  These  honour- 
able wives  had  in  the  day-time  fed  their  eyes  on  the 
god,  and  the  bewildering  dream  awakened  the  form 
of  the  wild  beast.  This  is  how  I read  the  dream, 
and  despise  the  explanation  which  was  given  by  the 
pride  of  sires  and  the  shamelessness  of  flatterers  : 
for  certainly  there  must  have  been  one  cause  why 
the  adulterous  fancy  always  took  the  form  of  a 
snake. 

But  I return  to  my  path.  My  only  wish  has  been 
to  lay  down  firmly  the  principle  that  with  the 
ancients  beauty„was  the  highest  law  of  the  imitative 
Art. 

This  principle  being  firmly  established,  it  neces- 
sarily follows  that  everything  else  by  which  the 


I.  jS 7kg  MA 

/LfT11  "J 

CHAPTER  II  67 

imitative  Art  can  at  the  same  time  extend  its 
influence  must,  if  it  does  not  harmonise  with  beauty, 
entirely  give  place  to  it,  and  if  it  does  harmonise,  at 
least  be  subordinate  to  it.  Let  me  dwell  on  the 
consideration  of  Expression. 

There  are  passions  and  degrees  of  passion  which 
express  themselves  in  the  countenance  by  the  most 
hideous  distortions,  and  which  place  the  whole  body 
in  such  attitudes  of  violence  that  all  the  fine  lines 
which  mark  it  in  a position  of  repose  are  lost.  The 
ancient  artists  either  abstained  from  these  altogether 
and  entirely,  or  used  them  in  a subordinate  degree, 
in  which  they  were  susceptible  of  some  measure 
of  beauty.  Rage  and  despair  do  not  disgrace  any 
of  their  works.  I dare  aver  that  they  have  never 
created  a Fury 10. 

Wrath  is  diminished  into  severity.  The  Jupiter 
of  the  poet  who  hurls  the  thunderbolt  is  wrathful  ; 
the  Jupiter  of  the  artist  is  severe. 

Lamentation  is  softened  into  sorrow ; and  when 
this  mitigation  cannot  take  place — if  the  lamenta- 
tion should  be  equally  degrading  and  disfiguring, 
wh  at  did  Timantlies  do  ? His  picture  of  the  Sacrifice 
of  Iphigenia,  in  which  he  distributed  to  all  the  by- 
standers their  proper  share  of  grief,  but  veiled  the 
countenance  of  the  father,  which  ought  to  manifest 
a grief  surpassing  that  of  all  the  others,  is  well 
known,  and  many  clever  things  have  been  said  about 
it.  He  had u,  said  one  critic,  so  exhausted  himself 
in  the  physiognomy  of  sorrow  that  he  despaired  of 
being  able  to  give  an  expression  of  greater  sorrow 
to  the  father.  He  thereby  confessed1’2,  said  another 
critic,  that  the  grief  of  a father  in  such  a catastrophe 
was  beyond  all  expression.  I,  for  my  part,  see 
neither  the  incapacity  of  the  artist  nor  the  incapacity 
of  the  Art.  As  the  degree  of  the  affection  becomes 
stronger,  so  do  the  corresponding  features  of  the 
countenance ; the  highest  degree  has  the  most 
decided  features,  and  nothing  is  easier  for  Art  than 
to  express  them.  But  Timantlies  knew  the  limits 


68 


LAOCOON 


which  the  Graces  had  fixed  to  his  Art.  He  knew 
that  the  grief  which  overcame  Agamemnon  as  a 
father  found  expression  in  distortions,  which  are 
always  hideous.  So  far  as  beauty  and  dignity  could 
be  combined  with  this  expression  he  went.  He 
might  easily  have  passed  over  or  have  softened  what 
was  hideous  : but  inasmuch  as  his  composition  did 
not  permit  him  to  do  either,  what  resource  re- 
mained but  to  veil  it  ? What  he  might  not  paint 
i he  left  to  conjecture.  In  a word,  this  veiling  is  a 
\ sacrifice  which  the  artist  made  to  beauty.  It  is  an  > 
| example  not  how  an  artist  can  force  expression 
i beyond  the  limits  of  Art,  but  how  an  artist  should 
\ subject  it  to  the  first  law  of  Art — the  law  of  beauty 13. 
j Apply  this  observation  to  the  Laocoon  and  the 
\ reason  which  I seek  is  clear.  The  master  strove  to 
attain  the  highest  beauty  in  given  circumstances  of 
bodily  anguish.  It  was  impossible  to  combine  the 
latter  in  all  its  disfiguring  vehemence  with  the 
former.  It  was  therefore  necessary  to  diminish  it ; 
he  must  soften  screams  into  sighs,  not  because  the 
screaming  betrayed  an  ignoble  soul,  but  because  it 
disfigured  the  countenance  in  a hideous  manner. 
Let  any  one  only  in  thought  force  wide  open  the 
mouth  of  Laocoon  and  judge.  Let  any  one  make 
him  scream  and  then  look.  It  was  a creation  which 
inspired  sympathy,  because  it  exhibited  beauty  and 
suffering  at  the  same  time ; now  it  has  become  a 
hideous  horrible  creation  from  which  we  gladly  turn 
away  our  face,  because  the  aspect  of  it  excites  what 
is  unpleasant  in  pain  without  the  beauty  in  the 
suffering  object  which  can  change  this  unpleasant- 
ness into  the  secret  feeling  of  sympathy. 

The  mere  wide-opening  of  the  mouth — putting 
out  of  consideration  how  violent  and  disgusting  the 
other  portions  of  the  face  distorted  and  displaced 
by  it  would  become — is  in  painting  a blot,  and  in 
statuary  a cavity,  which  produces  the  worst  effect 
possible.  Montfaucon  showed  little  taste  when  he 
declared  an  old  bearded  head  with  an  open  mouth 


CHAPTER  II 


69 


to  be  Jupiter 14  instructing  an  Oracle.  Must  a god 
scream  when  he  reveals  the  future?  Would  a 
pleasing  curve  of  the  mouth  make  his  speech  sus- 
picious? Neither  do  I believe  Valerius  that  Ajax, 
in  the  picture  by  Timanthes  already  mentioned, 
must  have  been  represented  as  screaming15.  Far 
worse  masters  in  the  time  of  decayed  Art  do  not 
allow  the  wildest  barbarians,  when  suffering  terror 
and  agony  of  death  under  the  sword  of  the  conqueror, 
to  open  their  mouths  so  as  to  scream  16. 

It  is  certain  that  this  reduction  of  the  most 
extreme  bodily  anguish  to  a lower  scale  of  feeling 
was  visible  in  many  of  the  ancient  works  of  Art. 
The  suffering  Hercules  in  the  poisoned  garment,  by 
the  hand  of  an  unknown  ancient  master,  was  not  the 
Hercules  of  Sophocles,  who  yelled  so  dreadfully 
that  the  Locrian  cliffs  and  the  Eubean  promontories 
re-echoed  with  it.  He  was  rather  melancholy  than 
mad17.  The  Philoctetes  of  Pythagoras  Leontinus 
appeared  to  impart  his  pain  to  the  observer,  an 
effect  which  the  slightest  feature  of  ugliness  would 
have  prevented.  It  may  be  asked  how  I know  that 
this  master  had  made  a statue  of  Philoctetes  ? — from 
a passage  in  Pliny,  which  ought  not  to  have  waited 
for  my  correction,  so  palpably  is  it  corrupted  or 
mutilated 18. 


1 • i . 1 ' 

CHAPTER  III 


•tU-c 


-*4'i 


T*  But,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  Art  has  in 
these  modern  times  greatly  widened  its  boundaries. 
Its  imitative  power,  it  is  said,  extends  over  all 
visible  nature,  of  which  the  beautiful  forms  but  a 
I.  small  part.  Truth  and  expression  are  its  first  law  ; 
and  as  nature  herself  always  sacrifices  beauty  to 
higher  views,  so  must  the  artist  also  subordinate  it 
to  his  general  design  and  pursue  it  further  than 
— truth  and  expression  allow.  It  suffices  that  through 
truth  and  expression  the  most  hideous  thing  in 
nature  is  changed  into  the  beautiful  of  Art. 

T Suppose  we  allow  this  idea  to  pass  unchallenged, 
as  to  its  merit  or  demerit ; are  there  not  other 
considerations  independent  of  it  which,  neverthe- 
less, oblige  the  Artist  to  observe  moderation  in  his 
expression,  and  not  to  choose  for  representation  the 
most  extreme  point  of  action?  I believe  that  the 
* single  moment  to  which  the  material  limits  of  Art 
confine  all  her  imitations  will  lead  us  to  such 
-Lconsiderations. 

If  the  Artist  out  of  ever  changing  nature  cannot 
; use  more  than  a single  moment,  and  the  Painter 
especially  can  only  use  this  single  moment  with 
: reference  to  a single  point  of  view  ; if  their  works, 
however,  are  made  not  only  to  be  seen  but  to  be 
considered,  and  considered  for  a long  time  and  re- 
peatedly; then  is  it  certain  that  this  single  moment, 
and  the  single  point  of  view  of  this  single  moment, 
musfi  be  chosen  which  are  most  fruitful  of  effect. 
That  alone  is  fruitful  of  effect  which  leaves  free 
play  to  the  power  of  imagination.  The  more  we 
see,  the  more  must  we  aid  our  sight  by  thought ; 
the  more  we  aid  our  sight  by  thought,  the  more 
70 


(k 


r 

CHAPTER  III 


71 


must  we  believe  that  we  see.  But  in  all  the  grada- 
tions of  a passion,  there  is  no  moment  which  has 
less  this  advantage  than  the  moment  of  the  highest 
degree  of  the  passion.  Beyond  this  there  is  nothing, 
and  to  show  the  eye  the  extremest  point  is  to  bind 
. the  wings  of  Fancy,  and  to  compel  her,  inasmuch 
as  her  power  cannot  go  beyond  the  impression  on 
the  senses,  to  busy  herseli  with  feeble  and  sub- 
ordinate images,  beyond  which  is  that  visible  fulness 
of  expression  which  she  shuns  as  her  boundary. 
When  Laocoon  sighs  the  imagination  may  hear  him 
scream  ; but  when  he  screams,  then  it  can  neither 
advance  a step  higher  in  this  representation,  nor 
descend  a step  lower  without  beholding  him  in  a 
more  tolerable  and  therefore  in  a less  interesting 
condition  : you  either  hear  him  groan  for  the  firstT" 
time,  or  you  see  him  already  dead. 

Moreover,  if  this  single  moment  obtains  througlrT 
Art  an  unchangeable  duration,  then  it  ought  to 
express  nothing  which  in  our  conception  is  transi- 
tory All  phenomena,  the  character  of  which  we 
consider  to  be  that  they  suddenly  appear  and 
suddenly  disappear — that  they  can  only  be  what 
they  are  for  a moment — all  such  phenomena,  be 
they  agreeable  or  shocking,  obtain,  when  prolonged 
by  Art,  so  unnatural  an  appearance,  that  their  im- 
pression becomes  weaker  with  each  repeated  in- 
spection, and  ends  in  our  feeling  disgust  or  fear  at 
the  whole  object.  La  Mettrie  who  allowed  himself  ^ 
to  be  painted  and  engraved  as  a second  Democritus, 
smiles  only  the  first  time  you  see  him.  Look  at 
him  oftener,  and  instead  of  a philosopher,  there  is 
a fool ; the  smile  has  become  a grin.  So  it  is  with 
the  screaming.  The  grievous  pain  which  forces  out 
the  scream,  either  soon  ceases  or  destroys  the 
sufferer.  The  most  enduring  man  screams,  but  does 
not  scream  incessantly  ; and  it  is  only  this  apparent 
unceasingness  in  the  material  imitation  of  Art 
which  reduces  his  scream  to  a womanish  incapacity, 
and  a childish  intolerance  of  pain.  This,  at  least, 


72 


LAOCOON 


the  Artist  of  Laocoon  had  to  avoid,  even  if  the 
screaming  would  not  have  injured  beauty,  and  even 
if  it  were  permitted  to  his  Art  to  express  suffering 
without  beauty. 

Among  the  old  Painters  Timomaclius  appears  to 
have  adopted  by  choice  subjectsMn  which  emotion 
is  carried  to  an  extreme  ; his  raging  Ajax,  his  child- 
murdering  Medea,  were  famous  pictures  ; but  From 
the  accounts  which  we  have  of  them  it  is  clear  that 
he  perfectly  understood  and  knew  how  to  combine 
that  point  at  which  the  observer  not  so  much  sees 
as  surmises  the  crisis,  with  that  phenomenon  with 
which,  we  do  not  so  necessarily  connect  the  idea  of 
the  transitory,  as  to  render  the  prolongation  of  it 
displeasing  in  a work  of  Art.  He  has  not  painted 
the  Medea  at  the  moment  in  which  she  actually 
murders,  her  children ; but  some  minutes  before, 
while  maternal  love  was  still  struggling  with 
jealousy.  We  foresee  the  end  of  the  struggle.  We 
[shudder  by  anticipation  at  the  mere  sight  of  the 
[savage  Medea,  and  our  imagination  goes  far  beyond 
what  the  Painter  has  been  able  to  draw  in  this 
iterrible  moment.  But  for  this  very  reason  the 
prolonged  indecision  of  Medea  represented  by  Art, 
so  little  distresses  us,  that  we  rather  wish  that  in 
nature  it  had  so  remained,  that  the  strife  of  passion 
had  not  ended,  or,  at  least,  had  lasted  long  enough 
to  allow  time  and  reflection  to  disarm  rage,  and  to 
secure  the  triumph  of  maternal  feeling.  This 
wisdom  on  the  part  of  Timomachus  has  procured 
for  him  great  and  frequent  praise,  and  raised  him 
far  above  other  obscure  painters  who  were  so  un- 
intelligent as  to  paint  Medea  at  the  moment  of  her 
greatest  fury,  and  to  give  a perpetuity  to  that 
transitory  and  fleeting  degree  of  the  extremest 
raving  which  revolts  everybody’s  nature.  The  poet 2 
who  blames  them  for  this  says,  very  sensibly,  while 
he  addresses  the  picture  itself, — ‘Dost  thou  con- 
tinually thirst  for  the  blood  of  thy  children?  Is 
there  for  ever  a new  Jason,  for  ever  a new  Creusa, 


CHAPTER  III 


73 


those  who  unceasingly  exasperate  you  ? to  the 
Devil  with  you  even  in  your  picture  ! \ he  adds, 
full  of  disgust. 

As  to  the  raging  Ajax  of  Timomachus,  we  can 
form  an  opinion  from  the  account  of  Philostratus  3. 
Ajax  did  not  appear  as  he  vented  his  fury  on  the 
herds,  and  bound  and  slew  oxen  and  goats.  But 
the  master  painted  him  as  he  was  sitting  exhausted 
with  these  mad  acts  of  heroism,  and  taking  the 
resolution  to  slay  himself  : and  this  is  really  the 
mad  Ajax,  not  because  he  is  at  the  moment  mad, 
but  because  we  see  that  he  has  been  mad  ; because 
the  intensity  of  his  madness  is  most  vividly  appa- 
rent from  the  shame  and  despair  under  which  he  is 
now  suffering.  We  see  the  storm  in  the  wreck,  and 
the  corpses  which  are  thrown  upon  the  beach. 


CHAPTER  IY 


I examine  tbe^^minent  reasons  why  the  master 
artist  of  the  Laocoon  was  obliged  to  observe  modera- 
tion in  the  expression  of  bodily  pain;  I find  that 
they  are  altogether  derived  from  the  peculiar  nature 
of  Art,  and  from  the  necessary  limits  and  require- 
ments of  Art.  It  would  be  difficult  to  apply  any  of 
these  reasons  to  Poetry. 

Without  stopping  here  to  enquire  how  far  the  poet 
can  be  successful  in  describing  corporeal  beauty,  thus 
much  is  indisputable,  that  the  whole  unbounded 
realm  of  perfection  lies  open  to  his  imitation,  this 
visible  veil,  under  which  perfection  becomes  beauty, 
can  be  only  one  of  the  subordinate  means  by  which 
he  knows  how  to  interest  us  on  behalf  of  his  per- 
sons. These  means  he  often  entirely  neglects,  assured 
that,  if  his  hero  has  won  our  favour,  we  shall  either 
be  so  much  occupied  with  his  nobler  qualities  as  not 
to  think  about  his  bodily  form  ; or,  if  we  do  think 
about  it,  to  be  so  prepossessed  in  his  favour  as  to 
bestow  on  him,  if  not  one  absolutely  beautiful,  yet 
one  which  is  not  unpleasing : least  of  all  will  he  refer 
to  the  sense  of  sight  any  poetical  trait  not  intended 
expressly  for  the  eye. 

When  Yirgil’s  Laocoon  screams,  who  does  not 
know  that  a wide  mouth  is  necessary  for  screaming, 
and  that  this  wide  mouth  is  hideous  ? Enough  that 
clamor es  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit  produces  a sublime 
effect  on  the  sense  of  hearing,  whatever  it  may 
produce  on  the  sense  of  seeing. 

If  there  be  any  one  who  desiderates  an  image  of 
beauty,  he  has  entirely  failed  to  appreciate  the 
general  effect  which  the  poet  intended  to  convey. 

Nothing,  in  the  next  place,  constrains  the  poet  to 

74 


k-fU^fiC  A-/*ffilpTER  IV  75 

concentrate  his  picture  upon  a single  moment.  He 
takes  up  each  of  his  actions  as  he  likes  from  their 
very  beginning  and  carries  them  through  all  pos- 
sible changes  up  to  the  very  end ; each  of  these 
changes  which  would  have  cost  the  painter  a whole 
work  specially  devoted  to  it,  costs  the  poet  only  a 
single  trait,  and  even  if  this  trait,  considered  by 
itself,  might  jar  on  the  imagination  of  the  hearer, 
either  such  preparation  has  been  made  for  it  by 
what  has  gone  before,  or  it  has  been  so  softened 
and  compensated  for  by  what  has  followed  as  to 
lose  its  particular  impression,  and  in  this  combina- 
tion produces  the  best  possible  effect ; and,  if  it 
were  really  unbecoming  a man  to  scream  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  anguish,  how  could  this  slight  and 
transitory  impropriety  derogate  from  the  esteem 
which  his  virtues  in  other  respects  have  already 
won  from  us  ? 

Virgil’s  Laocoon  screams,  but  this  screaming 
Laocoon  is  the  very  same  whom  we  have  already 
known  and  loved  as  the  wisest  of  patriots  and  the 
kindest  of  fathers.  We  attribute  his  scream  not  to 
his  character  but  to  his  intolerable  suffering.  This 
alone  we  hear  in  his  scream  ; and  it  is  only  by  this 
scream  that  the  poet  can  make  us  sensible  of  his 
suffering.  Moreover,  who  blames  him  ? Who  does 
not  rather  acknowledge  that  if  the  sculptor  did 
well  in  not  allowing  Laocoon  to  scream,  the  poet 
did  as  well  in  allowing  him  to  do  so? 

But  Virgil  is  here  only  a narrating  poet.  In  this 
justification  is  the  dramatic  poet  to  be  also  included  ? 
The  narrative  of  a scream  makes  one  kind  of  impres- 
sion ; the  scream  itself  makes  another.  The  Drama,  l 
which  is  destined  to  be  a living  painting  through 
the  representation  of  the  actor,  ought  perhaps  on 
that  very  account  to  adhere  the  closer  to  the  laws  \ 
of  material  painting.  In  the  actor  we  not  only 
believe  that  we  see  and  hear  a screaming  Philoc- 
tetes  : we  actually  do  see  and  hear  him  scream. 
The  nearer  the  actor  approaches  to  nature,  the 


76 


LAOCOON 


more  will  our  ears  and  eyes  be  afflicted ; for  so  they 
would  certainly  be  in  nature,  if  we  witnessed  such 
loud  and  vehement  utterances  of  pain.  Besides, 
bodily  pain  is  not  generally  susceptible  of  the  sym- 
pathy which  evils  of  another  kind  awaken.  Bodily 
pain  does  not  present  a sufficiently  distinct  idea  to 
our  imagination  to  produce  by  the  mere  aspect  of 
it  at  all  a corresponding  feeling  in  us.  Sophocles, 
therefore,  would  have  carelessly  overstepped  not 
merely  an  arbitrary  sense  of  decorum,  but  one 
f deeply  founded  in  the  very  nature  of  our  feelings 
1 if  he  had  made  Philoctetes  and  Hercules  whine,  and 
weep,  and  scream,  and  roar  in  this  manner.  The 
bystanders  in  the  scene  could  not  possibly  take  so 
great  a share  in  his  sufferings  as  these  immoderate 
outbreaks  of  sorrow  would  seem  to  require.  To  us 
spectators  they  would  appear  comparatively  cold, 
and  yet  we  can  only  consider  their  sympathy  as 
the  measure  of  our  own.  Add  to  this  observation 
that  the  actor  can  scarcely,  or  indeed  not  at  all, 
push  to  the  verge  of  actual  illusion  the  representa- 
tion of  bodily  pain  ; and  who  knows  whether  the 
modern  dramatic  writers  are  not  rather  to  be 
praised  than  blamed  for  shunning  altogether  and 
entirely  these  rocks,  or  at  least  for  coasting  round 
them  in  a light  skiff? 

How  much  in  theory  would  have  appeared  incon- 
testable if  the  achievements  of  genius  had  not 
succeeded  in  proving  the  contrary.  All  these  observ- 
ations have  some  foundation,  and,  nevertheless, 
Philoctetes  remaips  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the 
stage.  For  one  part  of  these  observations  does  not 
specially  affect  Sophocles,  and  it  is  only  because  he 
has  thrown  aside  the  other  part  of  them  that  he 
has  attained  to  beauties  of  which  the  timid  critic, 
without  this  example,  would  never  have  dreamt. 
The  following  remarks  will  show  this  more  exactly  : 

1.  How  wonderfully  the  poet  has  known  how  to 
strengthen  and  deepen  the  idea  of  bodily  pain ! He 
\ chose  a wound  (for  the  circumstances  of  the  story 


CHAPTER  IV 


77 


may  be  considered  by  us  as  dependent  upon  his 
choice,  inasmuch  as,  on  account  of  these  advan- 
tageous circumstances,  he  chose  the  whole  story),  he 
chose,  I say,  a wound  and  not  an  internal  malady,, 
because  he  was  able  to  make  a more  vivid  repre- 
sentation of  the  latter  than  of  the  former,  however 
painful  it  may  be.  The  inward  sympathetic  fire 
which  consumed  Meleager  when  his  mother  sacri- 
ficed him  by  the  burning  of  the  fatal  log  to  the 
wrath  of  his  sister,  would  have  been  less  adapted  to 
the  theatre  than  a wound.  This  wound,  moreover, 
was  a divine  punishment ; a poison  worse  than  any 
to  be  found  in  nature  incessantly  raged  within  him,, 
and  it  was  only  the  vehement  access  of  pain  which 
had  its  appointed  limit  and  then  the  wretched  man 
fell  into  a stupefying  sleep,  in  which  he  was  obliged 
to  refresh  his  exhausted  nature  in  order  that  he 
might  again  enter  upon  the  same  path  of  suffering. 
Chateaubrun  represents  him  as  wounded  only  by 
the  poisoned  dart  of  a Trojan.  From  such  a com- 
mon occurrence  what  extraordinary  result  is  to  be 
expected  ? In  the  wars  of  ancient  times  everybody 
was  exposed  to  it ; how  came  it  to  pass  that  in  the 
case  of  Philoctetes  alone  the  consequences  were  so 
dreadful  ? A natural  poison  working  for  nine  years 
without  causing  death  is  infinitely  more  improbable 
than  all  the  fabulous  wonders  with  which  the  Greek 
has  ornamented  his  story. 

2.  However  great  and  horrible  he  made  the  bodily 
sufferings  of  his  hero,  he  felt  nevertheless  that  they 
alone  would  not  be  sufficient  to  excite  a marked 
degree  of  sympathy.  He  combined  them  with  other 
evils,  which,  considered  in  themselves,  were  not 
calculated  to  excite  especial  emotion,  but  which,, 
through  this  combination,  wore  so  melancholy  an 
aspect  as  to  cause  a sympathy  in  their  turn  with 
the  bodily  pains.  These  evils  were  an  entire  priva- 
tion of  the  society  of  man,  hunger,  and  all  the 
distresses  of  life  to  which,  in  such  privation  and 
under  an  inclement  sky,  a man  would  be  exposed.1 


78 


LAOCOON 


Let  any  one  only  reflect  npon  the  condition  of  a 
man  in  such  circumstances.  But  give  him  health, 
strength,  and  industry,  and  he  becomes  a Robinson 
Crusoe  who  makes  little  claim  upon  our  sympathy, 
although  we  are  far  from  being  indifferent  about 
his  fate.  For  we  are  rarely  so  delighted  with 
human  society  that  the  repose,  which  out  of  it  we 
enjoy,  does  not  appear  fascinating  to  us,  especially 
if  we  add  the  conviction,  with  which  every  one 
flatters  himself,  that  he  will  learn  by  degrees  to 
dispense  with  assistance  from  others  altogether. 
On  the  other  hand,  le;t  a man  have  the  most  painful 
and  incurable  disease,  but  surround  him  with 
pleasant  friends,  who  will  not  let  him  be  in  need  of 
anything — who  lighten,  so  far  as  in  them  lies,  his 
suffering,  in  whose  presence  he  may  utter  freely 
groans  and  lamentations — there  will  certainly  be  a 
sympathy  with  him,  but  it  will  not  last  long,  and 
at  last  we  shrug  our  shoulders  and  advise  him  to  be 
patient.  It  is  only  when  both  predicaments  concur, 
when  the  solitary  man  has  no  control  over  his  body, 
when  the  sick  man  receives  as  little  from  others  as 
he  does  from  himself,  and  when  his  cries  perish  in 
the  desert  air — it  is  then  that  we  witness  all  the 
misery  which  can  befall  human  nature  smite  with 
collected  force  the  wretch,  and  every  fleeting 
thought  by  which  we  place  ourselves  in  his  position 
excites  shuddering  and  horror.  We  see  nothing 
before  us  but  despair  in  its  most  ghastly  form,  and 
no  sympathy  is  stronger,  none  melts  the  soul  more 
completely,  than  that  which  mingles  itself  with  the 
representation  of  despair.  Of  this  kind  is  the  sym- 
pathy which  we  feel  for  Philoctetes,  and  most 
strongly  in  that  moment  when  we  see  him  deprived 
of  his  bow,  the  only  thing  which  had  enabled  him 
to  support  his  miserable  life.  Oh  ! that  Frenchman 
who  had  no  understanding  to  perceive  this,  no  heart 
to  feel  this  ; or,  if  he  had,  could  have  been  petty 
enough  to  have  sacrificed  it  all  to  the  wretched 
taste  of  his  own  countrymen.  Chateaubrun  places 


CHAPTER  IV 


79 


Philoctetes  in  the  society  of  other  persons.  He 
makes  a princess’s  daughter  come  to  him  in  the 
desert  island,  and  this  is  not  all,  but  she  brings  a 
mistress  of  the  ceremonies  with  her,  of  whom  it  is 
difficult  to  say  whether  the  princess  or  the  poet 
stood  most  in  need.  He  leaves  out  altogether  the 
excellent  dramatic  incident  of  the  bow ; but  he 
makes  beautiful  eyes  take  the  place  of  it.  In  truth, 
the  bows  and  arrows  would  have  appeared  ridiculous 
to  the  young  French  hero.  On  the  other  hand, 
nothing  is  more  serious  to  him  than  the  wrath  of 
the  beautiful  eyes.  The  Greek  tortures  us  with  the 
harrowing  reflection  that  poor  Philoctetes  will  re- 
main without  his  bow  in  the  desert  island  and 
perish  miserably.  The  Frenchman  knows  another 
way  to  our  hearts.  He  makes  us  fear  that  the  son 
of  Achilles  will  depart  without  his  princess.  This 
is  what  the  Parisian  critics  call  to  triumph  over  the 
ancients,  and  one  of  them  proposed  to  call  the 
Chateaubrunian  piece  la  difficult 4 vaincue 2. 

3.  Next  to  the  general  effect  let  any  one  consider 
the  only  scene  in  which  Philoctetes  is  no  longer  the 
deserted  sick  man — where  he  hopes  soon  to  leave 
his  wretched  desert  and  to  return  to  his  kingdom  ; 
where,  moreover,  all  his  misfortune  is  confined  to 
his  bitter  wound.  He  whines,  he  screams,  and 
undergoes  the  most  ghastly  convulsions.  Here, 
properly  speaking,  arises  the  objection  of  violated 
decorum.  It  is  an  Englishman  who  makes  this 
objection,  a man,  moreover,  whom  one  would  not 
lightly  charge  with  false  delicacy.  As  has  been 
already  remarked,  he  has  good  ground  for  his  ob- 
jection. All  feelings  and  passions,  he  says,  with 
which  others  can  very  little  sympathise,  become 
repulsive  when  they  are  too  vehemently  expressed3. 

It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  to  cry  out  with  bodily 
pain,  how  intolerable  soever,  appears  always  unmanly  and 
unbecoming.  There  is,  however,  a good  deal  of  sympathy 
even  with  bodily  pain.  If,  as  has  been  already  observed, 


80 


LAOCOON 


I see  a stroke  aimed  and  just  ready  to  fall  upon  the  leg  or 
arm  of  another  person,  I naturally  shrink  and  draw  back 
my  own  leg  or  my  own  arm,  and  when  it  does  fall  I feel 
it,  in  some  measure,  and  am  hurt  by  it  as  well  as  the 
sufferer.  My  hurt,  however,  is  no  doubt  excessively 
slight,  and,  upon  that  account,  if  he  makes  any  violent 
outcry,  as  I cannot  go  along  with  him,  I never  fail,  to 
despise  him4.  ( 0 

Nothing  is  more  deceitful  than  general  laws  for 
our  feelings.  Their  tissue  is  so  fine  and  complicated 
that  the  most  cautious  speculation  can  scarcely  seize 
upon  any  single  thread  and  follow  it  through  all  its 
entanglements ; and  if  we  could  do  this  what  should 
we  gain  ? There  is  in  nature  scarcely  any  one  un- 
mixed feeling ; with  every  individual  one  a thousand 
others  spring  up  at  the  same  time,  the  least  of  which 
alters  entirely  the  ground  of  the  feeling,  so  that 
exceptions  grow  upon  exceptions,  which  end  in 
confining  the  presumed  general  principle  to  the 
experience  of  a few  particular  instances.  We  de- 
spise those,  says  the  Englishman,  whom  we  hear 
violently  screaming  from  corporeal  suffering.  But 
not  always  : not  for  the  first  time  : not  when  we  see 
that  the  sufferer  does  all  in  his  power  to  stifle  his 
anguish ; not  when  we  know  him  to  be  in  other 
respects  a man  of  firmness  ; still  less  when  we  see 
amid  his  sufferings  proofs  of  his  steadfastness,  wdien 
we  see  that  his  anguish  can  force  him  to  scream  but 
to  nothing  further ; that  he  would  rather  subject 
himself  to  a larger  continuance  of  his  suffering  than 
make  the  slightest  change  in  his  manner  of  think- 
ing, in  his  resolutions,  although  in  such  a change 
he  might  expect  the  end  of  his  suffering.  All  this 
is  to  be  found  in  Philoctetes.  Moral  greatness  con- 
sisted, in  the  opinion  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  as  much 
in  an  unchangeable  love  to  friends  as  in  an  unalter- 
able hatred  to  enemies.  This  greatness  Philoctetes 
throughout  all  his  sufferings  possessed.  His  suffer- 
ings had  not  so  dried  his  eyes  that  he  could  not 
shed  tears  over  the  fate  of  his  old  friend.  His  pain 


CHAPTER  IV 


81 


had  not  made  him  so  abject  that  in  order  to  obtain 
his  liberty  he  would  forgive  his  enemies  and  lend 
himself  to  the  execution  of  all  their  selfish  projects  ; 
and  would  the  Athenians  have  despised  this  rock  of 
a man  because  the  waves,  which  could  not  shake 
his  purpose,  made  him  cry  aloud  ? I acknowledge 
that  I have  little  taste  for  the  philosophy  of  Cicero  ; 
least  of  all  for  that  which  he  ostentatiously  displays 
in  the  second  book  of  his  Tusculan  Disputations  upon 
the  endurance  of  bodily  suffering, — one  would 
suppose  that  he  was  training  a gladiator,  so  vehe- 
ment is  he  against  the  outward  expression  of  bodily 
suffering.  In  that  expression  he  appears  to  find 
only  impatience,  without  considering  that  it  is  fre- 
quently quite  involuntary,  but  that  true  courage  can 
only  show  itself  in  the  actions  of  a free  will.  In 
the  tragedy  of  Sophocles,  he  hears  nothing  but  the 
complaining  and  screaming  of  Philoctetes,  never 
considering  the  constant  manliness  of  his  conduct 
in  other  respects.  How  otherwise  would  he  have 
found  occasion  for  his  rhetorical  onslaught  on  the 
Poets?5.  ‘They  would  make  us  effeminate  while 
they  introduce  to  our  notice  the  bravest  man  crying 
aloud’.  They  must  let  him  cry : for  a theatre  is  no 
arena.  It  is  the  part  of  the  venal  or  condemned 
gladiator  to  do  and  suffer  everything  with  decorum. 
From  him  no  loud  cry  must  be  heard,  in  him  no 
convulsion  of  pain  must  be  seen.  For  his  wounds, 
his  death,  must  divert  the  spectator ; therefore 
Art  must  learn  to  hide  all  feeling.  The  slightest 
expression  of  it  would  have  awakened  sympathy, 
and  frequently  sympathy  excited  would  have  made 
a speedy  end  to  the  cold  ghastly  performance. 
But  the  emotion  which  should  not  be  excited  here 
is  that  which  is  the  very  purpose  of  the  tragic 
scene,  and  which  requires  an  exactly  opposite  be- 
haviour. The  heroes  of  the  theatre  must  mani- 
fest feeling,  must  utter  their  anguish,  and  allow 
nature  herself  to  work  in  them.  If  they  betray 
that  they  are  acting  under  control  and  restraint, 

a 


m 


LAOCOON 


they  leave  our  hearts  cold,  and  prizefighters  in 
buskins  can,  at  the  utmost,  but  excite  our  wonder. 
This  appellation  all  the  persons  of  the  so-called 
tragedies  of  Seneca  deserve  ; and  I am  firmly  of 
opinion  that  the  Gladiatorial  shows  were  the  prin- 
cipal cause  why  the  Romans  in  their  tragedies 
remained  so  far  below  mediocrity.  The  spectators 
learnt  in  the  bloody  amphitheatre  to  mistake  all 
that  was  natural.  A Ctesias 6 could  indeed  have 
studied  his  Art  there,  but  a Sophocles  never.  The 
most  tragical  genius  accustomed  to  these  artificial 
death  scenes  must  have  been  corrupted  into  bom- 
bast and  rhodomontade.  But  these  rhodomontades 
were  as  incapable  of  inspiring  a true  heroic  spirit, 
as  the  lamentations  of  Philoctetes  were  of  causing 
effeminacy.  The  lamentations  are  those  of  a man, 
but  the  acts  are  those  of  a hero.  Both  compose  the 
manly  hero  who  is  neither  effeminate  nor  hardened, 
but  at  one  time  appears  as  the  former,  at  another  as 
the  latter,  even  as  nature,  principle,  and  duty  alter- 
nately require.  It  is  the  sublimest  subject  which 
wisdom  can  produce,  and  Art  can  imitate. 

4.  It  is  not  enough  that  Sophocles  has  secured 
his  sensitive  Philoctetes  against  contempt ; he  has 
also  wisely  forestalled  all  the  objections  which 
otherwise  might  have  been  brought  against  him 
by  the  Englishman.  For,  although  we  do  not 
always  despise  the  man  who  screams  from  corporeal 
suffering,  it  is  nevertheless  incontestable  that  we 
do  not  feel  for  him  so  much  sympathy  as  this 
scream  seems  to  demand.  How  then  should  those 
comport  themselves  who  have  to  do  with  the 
screaming  Philoctetes?  Should  they  be  moved  in 
a high  degree  ? That  is  contrary  to  nature.  Should 
they  show  themselves  as  cold  and  embarrassed  as 
men  are  actually  wont  to  be  in  such  circumstances  ? 
That  would  place  them  entirely  out  of  harmony 
with  the  spectators.  But,  as  has  been  observed, 
this  also  has  been  forestalled  by  Sophocles  ; namely, 
by  causing  the  attendant  persons  to  have  their 


CHAPTER  IV 


83 


own  interests  ; so  that  the  impression  which  the 
scream  of  Philoctetes  makes  upon  them  is  not  the 
only  thing  which  concerns  them,  and  the  spectator 
does  not  so  much  heed  the  disproportion  of  their 
sympathy  with  the  scream,  as  observe  the  change 
which  arises,  or  ought  to  arise,  in  their  own  feelings 
and  projects  through  this  sympathy,  whether  it 
be  weak  or  strong.  Neoptolemus  and  the  Chorus 
have  deceived  the  wretched  Philoctetes  ; they  are 
aware  of  the  despair  into  which  their  deceit  has 
plunged  him  ; for  now  a terrible  access  of  his 
malady  comes  on  before  their  very  eyes  : if  this 
access  does  not  excite  any  remarkable  sympathetic 
emotion  in  them,  it  can,  at  least,  compel  them  to 
retire  into  themselves,  to  have  respect  for  so  much 
misery,  and  not  to  increase  it  by  treachery.  This  the 
spectator  expects,  and  finds  his  expectation  fulfilled 
by  the  noble-minded  Neoptolemus7.  If  Philoctetes 
had  retained  the  mastery  of  his  suffering,  Neopto- 
lemus would  have  retained  the  mastery  of  his  dis- 
simulation. Philoctetes,  whose  suffering  makes  him 
incapable  of  dissimulation,  however  necessary  it 
may  seem  in  order  that  the  future  companion  of 
his  travels  may  not  repent  of  his  promise  to  take 
him  with  him,  Philoctetes,  who  is  all  nature,  brings 
back  Neoptolemus  to  his  own  nature.  This  return 
is  excellent,  and  the  more  affecting  as  it  is  the 
result  of  pure  humanity.  In  the  French  tragedy 
the  fine  eyes  come  into  play8.  But  I will  spend  no 
more  thought  on  this  parody.  In  the  Trachinke 
Sophocles  has  made  use  of  the  same  stroke  of  art, 
namely,  of  connecting  with  the  sympathy  excited 
by  the  scream  of  corporeal  suffering  another  emo- 
tion in  the  spectator.  The  suffering  of  Hercules 
is  not  an  exhausting  suffering  ; it  drives  him  to 
the  verge  of  madness,  in  which  he  is  snuffing  up 
revenge  and  nothing  else.  Already  lie  lias  in  this 
rage  seized  upon  Lichas  and  shattered  him  to  pieces 
on  the  rocks.  The  Chorus  is  composed  of  women  ; 
it  is  all  the  more  natural  that  fear  and  dread  should 


84 


LAOCOON 


overpower  them.  This  fact,  and  the  waiting  to  see 
■whether  a god  will  yet  hasten  to  the  help  of 
Hercules,  or  whether  Hercules  will  sink  under  his 
affliction,  cause  the  only  general  interest,  to  which 
sympathy  contributes  a very  faint  shading.  So 
soon  as  the  result  is  decided  by  the  intelligence 
from  the  oracle,  Hercules  becomes  tranquil,  and 
astonishment  at  his  last  resolution  takes  the  place 
of  all  other  emotions.  But  it  is  especially  necessary 
to  remember,  in  comparing  the  suffering  Hercules 
with  the  suffering  Philoctetes,  that  the  former  is  a 
demigod  and  the  latter  a man.  The  man  is  not 
ashamed  of  his  lamentation,  but  the  demigod  is 
ashamed  that  his  mortal  part  has  so  much  influence 
over  his  immortal  part  as  to  make  him  whine  and 
whimper  like  a girl 9.  We  moderns  do  not  believe 
in  demigods,  but  yet  the  least  hero  with  us  must 
feel  and  act  like  a demigod. 

Whether  the  actor  can  bring  the  scream  and  the 
contortions  of  pain  so  home  to  us  as  to  create  an 
illusion  I will  neither  affirm  nor  deny.  If  I find 
that  our  actors  cannot  do  this,  I should  wish  first 
to  know  whether  a Garrick 10  would  not  be  capable 
of  it,  and  if  he  should  not  succeed,  should  still 
remember  that  the  scenic 11  apparatus  and  declama- 
tion of  the  ancients  reached  a perfection  of  which 
now-a-days  we  have  no  notion. 


CHAPTER  Y 


r.t_ 

There  are  connoisseurs  of  antiquity  who  hold 
indeed  that  the  Laocoon  group  was  the  work  of  a 
Greek  master,  but  of  the  time  of  the  emperors, 
because  they  believe  that  the  Yirgilian  Laocoon 
served  as  the  model  for  it.  Of  all  the  ancient 
learned  men  who  have  been  of  this  opinion  I will 
only  mention  Bartholomew  Marliani1  ; and  of  the 
modern,  Montfaucon 2.  They  found,  without  doubt, 
so  remarkable  an  agreement  between  the  work  of 
art  and  the  description  of  the  poet  that  it  appeared 
to  them  impossible  that  both  should  by  accident 
have  lighted  upon  the  same  circumstances,  which 
certainly  do  not  naturally  suggest  themselves. 
They  further  maintain  that  as  to  the  honour  attach- 
ing to  the  invention  and  first  conception,  the  pro- 
bability is  much  more  in  favour  of  the  poet  than 
the  artist. 

Only  they  appear  to  have  forgotten  that  a third 
predicament  is  possible.  For,  perhaps,  the  poet 
has  as  little  imitated  the  artist  as  the  artist  has  the 
poet,  but  both  have  drawn  their  supply  from  the 
same  ancient  fountains.  According  to  Macrobius 3, 
the  works  of  Pisander  were  these  ancient  sources. 
For  while  the  works  of  this  Greek  poet  were  yet 
extant,  it  was  a matter  of  school  learning,  pueris 
decantatum , that  the  Roman  writer  had  not  so  much 
imitated  as  literally  translated  the  whole  conquest 
and  destruction  of  Ilium,  that  is,  his  whole  second 
book.  If,  moreover,  Pisander  had  been  Virgil’s 
X^redecessor  in  the  history  of  Laocoon,  it  was  never- 
theless not  the  custom  of  the  Greek  artists  to  derive 
their  instruction  from  any  Latin  poet,  and  the 
conjecture  drawn  from  the  epoch  rests  on  no 
foundation. 


85 


86 


LAOCOON 


In  the  meanwhile,  if  I were  compelled  to  maintain 
the  opinion  of  Marliani  and  Montfaucon,  I would 
offer  them  the  following  escape  from  the  objection. 
The  poems  of  Pisander  are  lost  : how  he  told  the 
story  of  Laocoon  cannot  certainly  be  said ; but  it 
is  probable  that  it  was  narrated  with  the  same 
circumstances  of  which  we  now  find  the  traces  in 
Greek  authors.  Now  these  do  not  in  the  least 
accord  with  the  narrative  of  Virgil,  but  the  Eoman 
poet  must  have  molten  together  the  Greeks’  tradi- 
tions according  to  his  good  pleasure.  The  misfor- 
tune of  Laocoon,  as  he  narrates  it,  is  his  own 
invention.  It  follows  that  if  the  artists  did  agree 
in  their  representations  with  him  they  must  have 
lived  after  his  time  and  have  worked  after  his 
model.  Quintus4  Calaber,  it  is  true,  like  Virgil, 
makes  Laocoon  manifest  a suspicion  of  the  wooden 
horse ; but  the  wrath  of  Minerva,  which  on  this 
account  he  draws  down  upon  himself,  is  very 
differently,  expressed  by  Virgil.  The  earth  gapes 
under  the  forewarning  Trojan.  Terror  and  anxiety 
overtake  him  ; burning  anguish  flames  in  his  eyes  ; 
his  brain  is  affected ; he  raves ; he  is  blinded. 
Blind  as  he  is,  he  ceases  not  to  counsel  the  burn- 
ing of  the  wooden  horse,  and  then  Minerva 
sends  two  dreadful  serpents,  which,  however,  only 
seize  the  children  of  Laocoon.  In  vain  do  these 
stretch  out  their  hands  to  their  father : the  poor 
blind  man  cannot  help  them  ; they  are  torn  to 
pieces,  and  the  serpents  disappear  in  the  earth. 
To  Laocoon  they  do  no  harm  ; and  that  this  circum- 
stance is  not  peculiar  to  Quintus6,  but  must  rather 
be  taken  to  be  generally  adopted,  is  evident  from  a 
passage  in  Lycophron,  where  these  serpents6  have 
the  epithet  of  children-eaters.  But  if  this  incident 
had  been  generally  accepted  by  the  Greeks,  Greek 
artists  would  scarcely  have  ventured  to  depart  from 
it,  and  it  could  hardly  have  happened  that  they 
would  have  departed  from  it  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  Boman  poet  if  they  had  not  known  him,  and 


CHAPTER  V 


87 


had  not  received  an  express  commission  to  work 
after  his  model.  He  who  wishes  to  defend  Marliani 
and  Montfaucon  must  take  up  this  position.  Virgil 7 
is  the  first  and  the  only  writer  who  makes  the  father 
as  well  as  the  children  to  be  killed  by  the  serpents. 
The  sculptors  do  the  same,  though,  as  Greeks,  they 
ought  not  to  do  it ; it  is  therefore  probable  that 
they  did  it  in  imitation  of  Virgil.  I know  very 
well  how  much  this  probability  falls  short  of  his- 
torical certainty.  But,  although  I do  not  wish  to 
push  further  this  conclusion  from  history,  at  least 
I think  it  may  stand  as  an  hypothesis  upon  which 
the  critic  may  express  his  opinion.  Be  it  proved 
or  not  proved  that  sculptors  have  not  followed 
Virgil,  I will  assume  the  fact  merely  for  the  purpose 
of  seeing  how  they  have  imitated  him.  I have 
already  expressed  my  opinion  as  to  the  scream. 
Perhaps  a further  comparison  may  bring  me  to 
results  not  less  instructive.  The  incident  of  bind- 
ing the  father  through  the  coils  of  the  devouring 
serpents  into  one  knot  with  his  two  sons  is  un- 
questionably very  happy,  manifestingan  uncommon 
picturesque  imagination.  Who  invented  it?— the 
poet,  or  the  artist  ? Montfaucon  is  determined  that 
it  shall  but  be  the  poet 8 ; but  I think  that  Mont- 
faucon has  not  read  the  poet  with  sufficient  care. 

Illi  agmine  certo 

Laocoonta  petunt,  et  primiun  parva  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implieat,  et  miseros  morsu  depascitur  artus. 

Post  ipsum,  auxilio  subeuntem  et  tela  ferentem 
Corripiunt  spirisque  ligant  ingentibus  9. 

The  poet  has  described  the  wonderful  length  of 
the  serpents.  They  have  entwined  themselves  round 
the  boys,  and  when  the  father  comes  to  their  help 
they  seize  on  him  {corripiunt).  Such  is  their  size 
that  they  are  not  obliged  for  an  instant  to  let  go 
the  boys  ; there  must  also  be  a moment  when  they 
have  just  fallen  upon  the  father  with  their  heads 
and  foremost  parts,  and  yet  hold  the  children  fast 


88 


LAOCOON 


by  their  hind  parts,  already  twisted  round  them. 
This  moment  in  the  progress  of  the  poetical  picture 
is  necessary — the  poet  makes  us  fully  perceive  it ; 
but  that  was  not  the  time  to  paint  it  in  detail. 
That  the  old  commentators  were  perfectly  aware  of 
this,  appears  probable  from  a passage 10  in  Donatus  n. 
How  improbable  it  is  that  it  would  have  escaped 
the  artists  to  whose  intelligent  eye  all  that  can 
be  advantageously  used  so  quickly  and  so  clearly 
appears ! 

In  the  very  windings  of  the  serpents,  which  the 
poet  entwines  round  Laocoon,  he  carefully  avoids 
including  the  arms,  in  order  to  leave  the  arms  fall 
liberty  of  action. 

Ille  simul  manibus  tendit  divellere  nodos 12 

In  this  the  artist  must  necessarily  follow  him. 
Nothing,  gives  more  expression  and  life  than  the 
movement  of  the  hands,  especially  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  passions  ; the  most  speaking  coun- 
tenance without  it  is  insignificant.  Arms  fast 
bound  to  the  body  through  the  coils  of  the  serpent 
would  have  spread  coldness  and  death  over  the 
whole  group.  But  we  see  them  in  the  principal 
figure,  as  well  as  in  the  accessory  figures,  in  full 
activity,  and  there  most  employed  where  for  the 
present  the  pain  is  greatest13. 

But  the  artist  found  nothing  except  this  freedom 
of  the  arms  from  the  coils  of  the  serpents  useful  to 
borrow  from  the  poet.  Yirgil  makes  the  serpents 
wind  themselves  in  double  coils  round  the  body  and 
the  neck  of  Laocoon,  and  tower  high  above  him 
with  their  heads. 

Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  coilo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  altis  i* 

This  figure  admirably  fills  our  imagination.  The 
noblest  parts  of  the  body  are  compressed  even  to 
suffocation,  and  the  poison  is  carried  directly  into 
the  face.  Nevertheless,  the  figure  is  not  one  for 
the  artist  who  wishes  to  show  the  working  of  the 


CHAPTER  Y 


89 


poison  and  of  the  pain  in  the  body.  For,  in 
order  to  make  these  conspicuous,  the  principal 
parts  must  be  left  as  free  as  possible,  and  through- 
out no  external  pressure  must  operate  upon  them 
which  would  change  and  weaken  the  play  of 
the  suffering  nerves  and  working  muscles.  The 
double  coils  of  the  serpents  would  have  covered 
the  whole  body,  and  that  agonised  contraction  of 
the  lower  part  of  the  body,  which  is  so  expressive, 
would  have  remained  invisible.  Whatever  parts  of 
the  body,  above,  below,  or  between  the  coils  could 
be  seen,  would  appear  amid  the  pressure  and  the 
distension  not  to  have  been  caused  by  pain  within, 
but  by  weight  without.  The  neck  enclosed  in  such 
repeated  folds  would  have  entirely  lost  that  pyra- 
midal termination  of  the  group 16  which  is  so  agree- 
able to  the  eye ; and  the  summits  of  the  serpents’ 
heads  stretching  out  of  these  folds  into  the  air 
would  have  made  so  sudden  a falling  off  of  pro- 
portion that  the  shape  of  the  whole  would  have 
been  extremely  repulsive.  There  are,  nevertheless, 
artists  who  are  so  unintelligent  as  to  follow  servilely 
the  poet.  We  recognise  with  horror  the  conse- 
quences, to  take  one  of  several  instances,  from  a 
print  of  F rank  Cleyn 16.  The  old  sculptors  saw  with 
a glance  that  their  art  in  this  respect  required  an 
entire  alteration.  They  transferred  all  the  coils 
from  the  body  and  neck  to  the  thighs  and  feet. 
Here  the  coils,  without  injury  to  the  expression, 
could  cover  and  bind  as  much  as  was  necessary. 
Here  arose  the  idea  of  an  impeded  flight  and  of  a 
kind  of  immovability,  which  is  very  favourable  to 
the  idea  produced  by  Art,  of  permanence  in  one 
and  the  same  condition. 

I know  not  how  it  has  happened  that  the  artists 
have  passed  over  in  complete  silence  this  difference 
in  the  coils  of  the  serpents  which  so  plainly  appears 
between  the  works  of  the  artist  and  the  description 
of  the  poet.  It  exalts  the  wisdom  of  the  artist 
quite  as  much  as  other  things  which  they  all  seize 


90 


LAOCOON 


upon,  but  which  they  do  not  so  much  venture  to 
praise  as  seek  to  excuse.  I mean  the  difference  as 
to  the  dress.  Virgil’s  Laocoon  is  in  his  priestly  robes, 
and  he  appears  in  the  group  with  both  his  sons  quite 
naked.  It  is  said  that  there  are  persons  who  find 
a gross  absurdity  in  representing  a king’s  son,  a 
priest  at  his  sacrifice,  as  naked,  and  to  these  persons 
the  connoisseurs  reply  in  sober  earnestness  that  it 
is  certainly  an  unusually  grave  fault,  but  that  the 
artist  was  constrained  to  commit  it  because  his 
figures  could  have  no  becoming  dress.  Statuary, 
they  say,  cannot  imitate  any  stuff.  Thick  folds 
have  a bad  effect.  Of  two  inconveniences  the  least 
must  be  chosen,  and  it  is  better  to  run  counter  to 
the  truth  than  to  be  subject  to  blame  for  the 
drapery 17.  The  old  artists  would  have  laughed  at 
tliis  reproach,  but  I do  not  know  what  they  would 
have  said  to  the  answer.  It  is  impossible  to  degrade 
Art  to  a lower  depth  than  by  these  means.  For  let 
it  be  granted  that  sculpture  can  imitate  stuffs  of 
different  kinds  as  well  as  painting,  must  Laocoon 
have  therefore  "necessarily  been  clothed?  Should 
, we  lose  nothing  by  the  adoption  of  this  clothing  ? 
Has  a garment,  the  work  of 18  servile  hands,  as 
jmuch  beauty  as  the  work  of  eternal  wisdom,  the 
organised  body  ? Does  it  require  the  same  capacity, 
— is  there  the  same  merit,— does  it  confer  the  same 
honour,  to  imitate  the  one  as  the  other?  Do  our 
eyes  only  require  to  be  deceived,  and  is  it  all  the 
same  to  them  wherewith  they  are  deceived  ? W ith 
the  poet  a garment  is  no  garment : it  covers  no- 
thing : our  imagination  sees  entirely  through  it. 
Let  the  Laocoon  of  Virgil  either  have  it  or  have  it 
not,  his  suffering  is  as  visible  in  one  part  of  his 
body  as  in  the  other.  The  forehead  is  bound  by 
the  priestly  fillet,  but  is  not  veiled  by  it.  Hay,  this 
fillet  hides  nothing,  absolutely  nothing : it  only 
strengthens  the  idea  which  we  form  of  the  misfortune 
of  the  sufferer. 

Perfusus  sanie  vittas  atroqne  veneno  *9 


CHAPTER  V 


91 


The  priestly  dignity  nothing  avails  him.  The  very 
emblem  of  it,  which  everywhere  procures  for  him 
respect  and  honour,  is  thoroughly  defiled  and  dese- 
crated by  the  poisonous  saliva.  But  the  artist 
must  abandon  this  subordinate  idea  if  the  principal 
work  is  not  to  suffer.  If  he  had  left  even  this  fillet 
to  Laocoon,  he  would  greatly  have  weakened  the 
expression 20.  The  forehead  would  have  been  covered, 
and  the  forehead  is  the  seat  of  expression.  As  in  4 
the  matter  of  screaming  he  sacrificed  expression  ta 
beauty,  so  here  he  sacrifices  what  is  conventional  to 
expression.  With  the  ancients  what  is  conventional 
was  considered  a very  small  thing.  They  felt  that 
the  highest  end  of  their  art  led  them  entirely  to 
dispense  with  it.  Beauty  is  their  highest  end.  ? 
Necessity  invented  clothes.  What  has  Art  to  do 
with  necessity  ? 21 . I grant  that  there  is  a kind  of 
beauty  in  apparel,  but  what  is  it  when  put  in 
competition  with  the  human  form  ? And  shall  he 
who  can  attain  the  greater  be  content  with  the 
less  ? I much  fear  that  the  most  perfect  painter  of 
dress  shows  by  this  very  dexterity  in  what  he  is. 
really  wanting. 


CHAPTER  VI 


My  supposition  that  the  artists  have  imitated 
the  poet  in  no  way  depreciates  the  former.  Rather 
does  their  wisdom  in  this  imitation  appear  in  the 
very  best  light.  They  follow  the  poet  without 
allowing  themselves  to  be  in  the  slightest  particu- 
lar corrupted  by  him.  They  have  a model,  but  as 
to  the  mode  of  transferring  this  model  from  one 
art  to  the  other  they  have  ample  scope  to  think 
for  themselves  ; and  the  original  ideas  which  they 
manifest  in  their  departures  from  the  model  demon- 
strate that  they  are  as  great  in  their  Art  as  he  in 
bis. 

Now,  I will  reverse  this  supposition  : the  poet 
shall  have  imitated  the  artists.  There  are  learned 
men  who  maintain  this  proposition  as  a truth  h I 
do  not  know  that  they  have  any  historical  grounds 
for  so  doing  ; but  finding  this  work  of  Art  over- 
whelmingly beautiful,  they  cannot  persuade  them- 
selves that  it  belongs  to  a later  epoch.  It  must 
belong  to  that  time  when  Art  was  in  its  most 
perfect  bloom,  because  it  deserves  to  belong  to  it. 

It  has  been  shown  that,  however  excellent  Virgil’s 
picture  may  be,  nevertheless  there  are  several 
features  in  it  of  which  the  artist  could  not  avail 
himself.  This  proposition  is  also  subject  to 
limitations. 

That  a good  poetical  painting  must  make  a really 
good  picture,  and  that  the  poet  has  painted  well 
only  so  far  as  the  artist  can  follow  him  in  all  his 
details.  We  are  disposed  to  take  for  granted  this 
limitation,  before  we  see  it  confirmed  by  examples. 
Simply  from  a consideration  of  the  wider  sphere  of 
Poetry,  of  the  unbounded  field  of  our  imagination, 


CHAPTER  VI  93 

of  the  immateriality  of  its  images,  which  can  stand 
side  by  side  in  the  greatest  multitude  and  multi- 
formity, without  the  one  concealing  or  injuring  the 
other,  just  as  the  things  themselves,  or  the  natural 
signs  of  them,  in  the  narrow  limits  of  space  or 
time,  would  stand. 

If,  however,  the  less  cannot  contain  the  greater, 
the  less  can  be  contained  in  the  greater,  or  I will 
put  it  thus : although  not  every  trait  which  the 
painting  poet  uses  can  produce  as  good  an  effect 
on  canvas  or  in  marble,  yet  perhaps  evety  trait  of 
the  artist  may  produce  as  good  an  effect  in  the 
work  of  the  poet  ? Certainly  ; for  that  which  we 
discover  to  be  beautiful  in  a work  of  art  is  not 
discovered  by  our  eye,  but  by  the  force  of  our 
imagination,  through  the  eye.  The  same  form  may, 
moreover,  be  excited  in  our  imagination  by  arbi- 
trary or  by  natural  signs,  and,  each  time,  the  same 
pleasure,  though  not  in  the  same  degree,  will  arise2. 

All  this  being  granted,  I must  confess  that,  to 
me,  the  proposition  that  Virgil  has  imitated  the 
artist  appears  much  more  unintelligible  than  the 
opposite  proposition.  If  the  artist  followed  the 
poet  I can  give  a reason  and  can  account  for  all  his 
deviations  from  him.  He  must  deviate  from  him 
if  the  very  traits  of  the  poet  would  have  caused 
improprieties  in  his  work  which  they  do  not  pro- 
duce in  that  of  the  poet.  But  why  must  the  poet 
deviate  ? If  he  had  copied  the  group  faithfully  in 
all  its  parts,  would  he  not  have  delivered  to  us  an 
excellent  picture?3.  I quite  understand  how  his 
fancy  working  for  himself  could  bring  him  to  this 
or  that  trait : but  the  causes  why  his  judgment 
was  obliged  to  change  the  traits  of  beauty  before 
his  eyes  into  these  other  traits  are  by  no  means 
apparent  to  me. 

It  seems  to  me  that4  if  Virgil  had  had  the  group 
for  his  model,  he  would  hardly  have  so  far  re- 
strained himself  as  to  have  left  us  to  conjecture 
that  all  the  three  bodies  were  entwined  in  one 


94 


LAOCOON 


knot.  They  would  have  been  placed  in  too  lively 
a representation  before  his  eyes,  and  he  would 
have  found  the  effect  resulting  from  them  too  ex- 
cellent not  to  have  given  them  a more  conspicuous 
place  in  his  description.  I have  said  that  it  was 
not  then  the  moment  to  paint  in  detail  this  entwin- 
ing. No ; but  one  single  word  more  would  have 
produced,  perhaps,  a very  marked  effect  even  in 
the  shadow  in  which  the  poet  was  obliged  to  leave 
it.  What  the  artist  would,  without  this  word,  have 
revealed,  the  poet,  if  he  had  seen  it  in  the  work  of 
the  artist,  would  not  have  left  without  this  word. 

The  artist  had  the  most  urgent  reasons  for  not 
allowing  the  anguish  of  Laocoon  to  burst  forth 
into  a scream.  If,  however,  the  poet  had  had 
before  him  so  affecting  a combination  of  pain  and 
beauty  in  the  work  of  art,  what  could  have  so 
irresistibly  compelled  him  to  leave  altogether 
unexpressed  the  idea  of  manly  demeanour  and 
magnanimous  patience,  which  arises  out  of  this 
combination  of  pain  and  beauty,  and  to  shock  us 
at  once  with  the  ghastly  screaming  of  his  Laocoon  ? 
Richardson  says : ‘ Virgil's  Laocoon  must  scream 
because  the  poet  does  not  wish  so  much  to  excite 
pity  for  him  as  horror  and  dismay  in  the  Trojans  \ 
I will  grant,  although  Richardson  does  not  seem  to 
have  considered  it,  that  the  poet  does  not  make  the 
description  in  his  o\vn  proper  person,  but  causes 
Aeneas  to  make  it,  and  to  make  it  in  the  presence 
of  Dido,  whose  sympathy  Aeneas  was  eager  to  take 
by  storm.  But  it  is  not  the  scream  which  so  much 
surprises  me  as  the  want  of  all  gradation  up  to 
this  scream  to  which  the  work  of  the  artist  would 
naturally  have  led  the  poet,  if  he  had,  as  has  been 
assumed,  taken  it  for  his  model.  Richardson  re- 
marks 6 : 4 The  history  of  Laocoon  is  intended  only 
to  lead  up  to  a pathetic  description  of  the  final 
destruction  of  the  city  ; the  poet,  therefore,  did 
not  intend  to  make  Laocoon  too  interesting,  in 
order  not  to  dissipate,  through  the  misfortune  of 


CHAPTER  VI 


95 


one  individual  citizen,  the  attention  which  this  last 
night  of  horrors  ought  to  concentrate  upon  itself 
But  this  is  arbitrarily  to  consider  the  matter  from 
the  one  moment  of  a painter’s  view,  from  which  it 
ought  not  to  be  considered  at  all.  The  misfortune 
of  Laocoon  and  the  destruction  of  the  city  are  not 
intended  by  the  poet  to  be  two  pictures,  one  next 
to  the  other ; they  do  not  both  together  make  one 
whole,  so  that  our  eye  may  or  ought  to  overlook 
both  at  the  same  moment ; and  on  no  other  hypo- 
thesis would  it  be  desirable  that  our  glance  should 
rather  light  upon  Laocoon  than  upon  the  burning 
city.  Both  descriptions  follow  one  upon  the  other, 
and  I do  not  see  what  advantage  accrues  to  the  one 
which  follows,  from  the  fact  that  the  one  which 
precedes  has  so  very  greatly  affected  us.  It  would 
show  that  the  one  which  followed  did  not,  in  itself, 
sufficiently  affect  our  feelings.  Still  less  motive 
would  the  poet  have  had  to  alter  the  coils  of  the 
serpents.  In  the  work  of  Art  they  occupy  the 
hands  and  bind  the  feet.  So  pleasing  to  the  eye 
is  this  distribution,  so  lively  is  the  picture  which 
remains  of  it  in  the  imagination.  It  is  so  distinct 
and  clear  that  it  can  be  represented  by  words  not 
much  more  feebly  than  by  natural  signs  : 

Micat  alter,  et  ipsum 

Laocoonta  petit,  totumque  infraque  supraque 
Implicat  et  rapido  tandem  ferit  ilia  morsu 

At  serpens  lapsu  crebro  redeunte  subintrat 
Lubricus,  intortoque  ligat  genua  infima  nodo  6 

These  are  the  lines  of  Sadolet,  which  would  doubt- 
less have  been  produced  with  yet  more  pictur- 
esqueness by  Virgil  if  a visible  model  had  kindled 
his  fancy,  and  which  would  then  certainly  have 
been  better  than  what  he  now  gives  us  in  their 
place 7 : 

Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  altis 

These  traits  entirely  fill  our  imagination ; but 


96 


LAOCOON 


our  imagination  must  not  tarry  there,  it  must  not 
seek  to  analyse  them,  it  must  at  one  time  see  only 
the  serpents,  at  another  time  only  the  Laocoon  ; 
it  must  not  represent  to  us  the  effect  which  both 
together  create.  So  far  as  it  attempts  to  do  this 
the  Virgilian  picture  begins  to  be  displeasing,  and 
to  be  highly  unpicturesque. 

If,  however,  the  alterations  which  Virgil  would 
have  made  in  the  model  presented  to  him  would 
have  been  happy,  they  would  still  have  been  purely 
arbitrary.  We  imitate  in  order  to  produce  resem- 
blance ; can  we  produce  resemblance  when  we  make 
alterations  beyond  the  necessity  of  the  case  ? 
Rather  when  this  is  done  it  is  clear  that  we  did  not 
intend  to  produce  a resemblance  because  we  have 
not  imitated.  It  may  be  replied,  No,  not  the  whole, 
but  this  or  that  part.  Good.  Still,  what  are  then 
these  individual  parts  wThich,  in  the  description  of 
the  poet  and  in  the  work  of  the  artist,  so  closely 
harmonize  as  to  make  the  poet  appear  to  have 
borrowed  the  former  from  the  latter  h The  father, 
the  children,  the  serpents  were  all  furnished  by 
history  to  the  poet,  as  well  as  to  the  artist.  Apart 
from  history  they  agree  in  nothing  but  in  this, 
that  the  children  and  the  father  wrere  entwined 
in  one  serpent  knot.  But  their  harmony  in  this 
respect  sprang  from  the  altered  version,  that  the 
very  same  misfortuue  which  had  smitten  the  father 
smote  the  children.  But  this  alteration,  as  has 
been  already  said,  Virgil  appears  to  have  made,  for 
the  Greek  tradition  is  quite  different.  It  follows 
that  if  in  regard  to  this  common  fact  of  entwining 
there  has  been  an  imitation  on  the  one  side  or  the 
other,  it  may  be  presumed  with  greater  probability 
to  be  on  the  side  of  the  artist  than  of  the  poet* 
In  all  other  respects  the  one  differs  from  the  other, 
only  with  this  distinction,  that  if  it  is  the  artist 
that  has  made  the  deviation,  his  intention  to 
imitate  the  poet  may  still  be  maintained,  inasmuch 
as  the  vocation  and  the  limits  of  his  art  constrained 


CHAPTER  VI 


97 


him  to  make  this  deviation  ; if,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  poet  be  thought  to  have  imitated  the  artist, 
then  all  the  deviations  which  have  been  mentioned 
disprove  this  supposed  imitation,  and  those  who 
notwithstanding  maintain  it,  can  only  mean  that 
the  work  of  Art  is  older  than  the  poem. 


ir 


CHAPTER  VII 


« 

When  it  is  said  that  the  artist  imitates  the  poet, 
or  the  poet  imitates  the  artist,  this  mode  of  speech 
may  have  a twofold  meaning.  Either  the  one 
makes  the  work  of  the  other  the  real  object  of  his 
imitation,  or  they  have  both  the  same  object  of 
imitation,  and  the  one  borrows  from  the  other  the 
manner  and  style  of  imitation.  When  Yirgil 
' describes  the  shield  of  Aeneas,  he  imitates  in  the 
first  meaning  the  artist  who  has  made  the  shield. 
The  work  of  Art,  not  that  which  is  represented  in 
the  work  of  Art,  is  the  object  of  his  imitation  ; and 
if  he  also  describes  what  is  seen  to  be  represented 
thereon,  he  describes  it  as  a part  of  the  shield,  not 
as  the  shield  itself.  If  Yirgil,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  imitated  the  group  of  Laocoon,  this  would  have 
been  an  imitation  in  the  second  meaning.  For  he 
would  not  have  imitated  this  group,  but  what  this 
group  represents,  and  would  have  borrowed  from  it 
only  the  details  of  his  imitation. 

In  the  first  imitation  the  poet  is  original,  in  the 
second  he  is  a copyist.  The  first  is  a part  of  general 
imitation  which  constitutes  the  essence  of  his  art, 
and  he  works  at  it  as  a genius,  whether  he  takes  his 
object  from  another  art  or  from  nature.  The 
second,  on  the  contrary,  altogether  degrades  him 
from  his  dignity  : he  imitates,  instead  of  the  thing 
itself,  the  imitations  of  it,  and  gives  us  cold  reminis- 
cences of  the  traits  of  a foreign  genius,  instead  of 
***  original  traits  of  his  own l. 

As,  however,  the  poet  and  the  artist  treat  the 
circumstances  which  they  have  in  common,  not  un- 
frequently,  from  the  same  point  of  view  ; then  it 
cannot  but  happen  that  these  imitations  in  many 
98 


CHAPTER  YII 


99 


portions  must,  without  there  having  been  the  least 
idea  of  imitation  or  of  emulation,  resemble  each 
other.  These  concurrences  may  lead  contempor- 
aneous artists  and  poets  to  mutual  explanations  as 
to  things  which  are  no  longer  present  to  us.  But 
to  push  these  explanations  to  the  extent  of  con- 
verting accident  into  intention,  and  especially  to 
impute  to  the  poet  that  in  every  trifling  detail  he 
had  reference  to  this  statue  or  that  picture,  is  to 
render  him  a very  doubtful  service  ; and  not  only 
him,  but  also  the  reader  to  whom  they  make  the 
most  beautiful  passage  very  clear,  if  you  will,  but 
excessively  cold.  This  is  the  object  and  the  mistake 
of  a celebrated  English  work.  Spence  wrote  his 
Polymetis 2 with  much  classical  erudition,  and  with 
a very  trustworthy  acquaintance  with  the  works  of 
ancient  Art  which  remain  to  us.  He  has  often 
accomplished  with  success  his  design  of  illustrating, 
by  means  of  these,  the  Roman  poets  ; and,  on  the 
other  hand,  of  extracting  from  the  poets  explana- 
tions as  to  unexplained  works  of  ancient  Art.  But 
notwithstanding  I maintain  that,  to  every  reader 
of  taste,  his  book  must  be  absolutely  intolerable. 

It  is  natural  that  when  Valerius  Flaccus  describes, 
the  winged  lightning  on  the  Roman  shields 

Nec  primus  radios,  miles  Roman e,  corusci 

Fulminis,  et  rutilas  scutis  diffuderis  alas 

this  description  should  become  more  intelligible  to 
me  when  I see  the  form  of  such  shield  upon  an 
ancient  monument3.  It  may  be4  that  Mars  was 
represented  in  that  hovering  attitude,  in  which 
Addison  thought  he  saw  him  over  Rhea  on  a coin, 
and  was  also  represented  by  the  ancient  armourers 
upon  the  helmets  and  shields  ; and  that  Juvenal 
had  such  a helmet  or  shield  in  his  thoughts  when 
he  alluded  to  it  in  a word  which,  up  to  the  time  of 
Addison,  had  been  a riddle  to  all  interpreters.  It 
appears  to  me  that  when  I consider  the  passage  in 


100  LAOCOON 

Ovid  in  which  the  wearied  Cephalus  invokes  the 
cooling  breeze, 

Aura  . . . venias 

Meque  juves,  intresque  sinus,  gratissima,  nostros 

and  in  which  his  Procris  takes  this  aura  for  the 
name  of  a rival,  that  this  passage  is  more  natural 
when  I observe  in  the  ancient  works  of  Art  that 
they  really  personified  this  gentle  breeze,  and  wor- 
shipped a kind  of  female  sylphs  under  the  name 
aurae 6.  I grant  that  when  Juvenal  compares  a 
good-for-nothing  fellow"  of  rank  to  a Mercury  on  a 
column,  one  can  scarcely  discover  the  resemblance 
in  the  comparison  without  seeing  such  a column, 
without  knowing  that  it  is  a badly-executed  column 
that  carries  only  the  head,  or,  at  most,  only  the 
trunk  of  the  god,  and  that  because  we  see  neither 
the  hands  nor  the  feet,  it  gives  the  idea  of  inactivity.6 
Illustrations  of  this  kind  are  not  to  be  despised, 
although  they  are  not  always  necessary  nor  always 
sufficient.  The  poet  has  the  work  of  Art  as  a sub- 
stantive thing  and  not  as  an  imitation  before  his 
eyes  : or  artist  and  poet  have  adopted  the  same 
idea,  and  consequently  there  must  be  a harmony  in 
their  representations,  from  which  we  may  infer  re- 
ciprocally the  generality  of  their  ideas.  But  when 
Tibullus 7 paints  the  form  of  Apollo  as  he  appeared 
to  him  in  a dream  : — the  most  beautiful  of  youths,  his 
temples  bound  with  the  chaste  laurel,  Syrian  odours 
are  wafted  from  his  golden  hair  which  flows  over 
his  slender  neck  ; dazzling  white  and  purpling  red 
are  mingled  over  his  whole  body,  as  upon  the  tender 
cheek  of  the  bride  who  is  brought  to  her  beloved  : — 
why  must  these  features  have  been  borrowed  from 
old  celebrated  pictures  ? Echion’s  nova  nupta  vere- 
cundia  notabilis  may  have  been  in  Home,  may  have 
been  copied  a thousand  and  a thousand  times. 
Was  bridal  modesty  on  that  account  banished  from 
the  world  ? After  the  painter  had  seen  it,  was  it 
no  more  to  be  seen  by  any  poet  except  in  the  imita- 


CHAPTER  VII 


101 


tion  of  the  painter?8.  Or  if  another  poet  speaks  of 
Vulcan  wearied,  and  of  his  red  countenance  glowing 
from  the  forge,  must  he  learn  from  the  work  of  the 
painter  that  toil  wearies,  and  heat  inflames  ? 9.  Or 
when  Lucretius  describes  the  changes  of  the  seasons, 
and  leads  them  forth  in  their  natural  order,  with 
the  whole  train  of  their  effects  in  the  sky  and  on 
the  earth,  was  Lucretius  an  Ephemeron  ? Had  he 
never  lived  through  a whole  year,  so  as  himself  to 
have  experienced  all  these  changes,  so  that  he  is 
obliged  to  paint  them  in  imitation  of  a procession 
in  which  the  statues  of  them  would  be  borne  round  ? 
Must  he  first  learn  from  these  statues  the  old 
poetical  idea  of  Art  of  making  the  abstracta 10  actual 
existences  ? n.  Or  Virgil’s  pontem  indignatus  Araxes , 
that  admirable  poetical  image  of  a stream  over- 
flowing its  banks  as  it  tears  asunder  the  bridge 
thrown  over  it,  would  it  not  have  lost  its  entire 
beauty  if  the  poet  had  alluded  to  a work  of  Art  in 
which  the  River  God  was  represented  as  having 
actually  torn  the  bridge  in  pieces?12.  What  have 
we  to  do  with  such  illustrations  as  these,  which  dis- 
possess the  poet  of  his  brightest  passages,  in  order 
that  the  idea  of  the  artist  may  shine  through  them  ? 

I lament  that  so  useful  a book  as  Poly  metis  other- 
wise would  have  been,  should,  through  this  tasteless 
whim  of  substituting  for  the  natural  fancy  of  the 
old  poets  one  derived  from  another  Art,  have  be- 
come so  repulsive  and  so  much  more  injurious  to 
classical  authors  than  the  watery  commentaries  of 
the  most  insipid  etymologist  could  ever  have  been. 
Still  more  do  I lament  that  in  this  respect  Spence 
should  have  been  preceded  by  Addison,  who,  out  of 
a laudable  desire  to  raise  the  knowledge  of  ancient 
works  of  Art  to  the  standard  of  a mean  of  inter- 
pretation, has  so  little  discriminated  the  cases  in 
which  the  imitation  of  the  artist  is  becoming  to  the 
poet,  and  those  in  which  it  is  derogatory. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Of  the  mutual  resemblance  which  subsists  between 
Poetry  and  Painting,  Spence  has  the  most  extra- 
ordinary notions.  He  thinks  that  both  arts,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  ancients,  were  so  closely  bound 
together  that  they  went  hand  in  hand,  and  the 
poet  never  lost  sight  of  the  painter,  nor  the  painter 
of  the  poet.  That  Poetry  is  the  more  comprehensive 
Art,  that  its  beauties  are  subject  to  laws  which 
Painting  cannot  reach,  that  there  may  often  be 
reasons  for  preferring  unpicturesque  to  picturesque 
beauties  he  seems  never  to  have  considered,  and  is 
therefore,  when  the  least  difference  occurs,  in  the 
greatest  perplexity,  which  makes  him  have  recourse 
to  the  most  marvellous  shifts  in  the  world. 

The  ancient  poets  for  the  most  part  gave  Bacchus 
horns.  It  is  therefore  strange  that  Spence  so 
seldom  sees  these  horns  on  his  statues1.  He  has 
recourse  to  all  kinds  of  reasons  for  this,  to  the 
ignorance  of  antiquaries,  to  the  smallness  of  the 
horns  themselves,  which  might  have  crept  in  amid 
grapes  and  ivy  leaves.  He  goes  round  and  round 
the  real  reason  without  suspecting  it.  The  horns 
of  Bacchus  were  no  natural  horns,  as  those  of  the 
fawns  and  satyrs  were.  They  were  an  ornament 
to  the  forehead,  which  he  could  take  off  and  lay 
aside. 

Tibi  cum  sine  cornibus  adstas 
Virgineum  caput  est 

says  Ovid2  in  his  solemn  invocation  of  Bacchus. 
He  could  also  be  seen  without  horns  when  he 
wished  to  appear  in  the  beauty  of  his  youth.  In 
this  beauty  the  artists  desired  to  represent  him, 
and  would  therefore  have  avoided  all  accessories 
102 


CHAPTER  VIII 


103 


which  could  have  produced  a bad  effect.  Such  an 
accessory,  horns,  which  were  fastened  to  the  diadem, 
would  have  been,  as  can  be  seen  on  a head  in  the 
Royal  Cabinet  at  Berlin3.  Such  an  accessory  was 
the  diadem  itself,  which  covered  the  beautiful  fore- 
head, and  therefore  is  as  seldom  found  in  the  statues 
of  Bacchus  as  the  horns,  although  the  former  is  so 
often  ascribed  to  him  as  the  inventor  by  the  poets. 
The  horns  and  the  diadem  furnished  the  poets  with 
subtle  allusions  to  the  acts  and  character  of  the 
god.  To  the  artist,  on  the  other  hand,  these  were 
hindrances  to  the  display  of  greater  beauties  ; and 
if  Bacchus  had,  as  I believe,  the  additional  name  of 
Biformis,  A i/u6p(f)os,  because  he  could  appear  terrible 
as  well  as  beautiful ; then  it  was  quite  natural  that 
the  artist  should  prefer  to  choose  that  form  which 
was  most  in  harmony  with  the  end  of  his  Art. 

In  the  works  of  the  Roman  poets,  Minerva  and 
Juno  often  hurl  the  thunderbolt.  But  why  not 
also  in  the  paintings  in  which  they  are  represented  ? 
says  Spence4.  He  answers  : it  was  a particular 
privilege  of  these  two  goddesses,  the  reason  for 
which  is  perhaps  to  be  found,  originally,  in  the 
Samothracian  mysteries.  But,  as  among  the  ancient 
Romans,  artists  were  considered  as  common  people, 
and  were  therefore  seldom  admitted  to  these  mys- 
teries, they  doubtless  knew  nothing  about  this,  and 
what  they  did  not  know  they  could  not  represent. 
I might  ask  Spence,  on  the  other  hand  : Did  these 
common  people  work  at  their  own  suggestion  or  at 
the  command  of  persons  in  higher  life,  who  could 
be  informed  of  these  mysteries  ? Were  the  artists 
as  contemptuously  considered  by  the  Greeks? 
Were  not  the  Roman  artists  born  Greeks?  and 
so  on. 

Statius  and  Valerius  Flaccus6  paint  an  enraged 
Venus,  and  with  such  terrible  features,  that  for  the 
moment  she  might  be  taken  for  a Fury  rather  than 
the  Goddess  of  Love.  Spence  looks  in  vain  in  the 
ancient  works  of  Art  for  such  a Venus.  What  is 


104 


LAOCOON 


his  conclusion  ? That  a greater  latitude  is  allowed 
to  the  poet  than  the  sculptor  or  painter  ? This  is 
the  conclusion  which  he  ought  to  have  drawn  ; but 
he  has  taken  it  as  a fundamental  principle  once  for 
all  that  in  poetical  description  nothing  is  good 
which  would  be  unbecoming  if  represented  in  a 
statue  or  a picture.  It  follows  that  the  poets  who 
have  done  this  have  erred6.  Statius  and  Valerius, 
he  says,  belong  to  an  epoch  when  Homan  poetry 
was  already  declining7.  They  manifest  in  this 
matter  a corrupted  taste  and  a bad  judgment8.  In 
the  poets  of  a better  epoch  you  will  not  find  such 
an  offence  against  picturesque  expression. 

This  sort  of  remark  requires  very  little  power  of 
discrimination.  I will  not,  however,  undertake  the 
defence  of  Statius  or  of  V alerius  in  this  matter,  but 
content  myself  with  a general  observation.  The 
gods  and  spiritual  beings,  as  represented  by  the 
artist,  are  not  entirely  the  same  as  those  whom  the 
poet  makes  use  of.  To  the  artist  they  are  personified 
absbracta , which  must  always  maintain  the  same 
characteristics  if  they  are  to  be  recognised.  To 
the  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  they  are  real  acting 
creatures,  which,  in  addition  to  their  general 
character,  have  other  qualities  and  affections,  which, 
as  circumstances  afford  the  opportunity,  predomin- 
ate. To  the  sculptor  Venus  is  nothing  but  love  : 
he  must  give  her  all  the  decent  modest  beauty,  all 
the  sweet  charms,  which  enchant  us  in  the  object 
of  our  love,  and  which  we  therefore  bring  with  us 
to  our  consideration  of  the  abstract  idea  of  love. 
The  least  deviation  from  this  ideal  prevents  our 
recognition  of  her  image. 

Beauty,  attended  by  more  majesty  than  shame, 
is  no  Venus,  but  a Juno.  Charms  rather  more 
imperious  and  masculine  than  sweet  give  us  a 
Minerva  instead  of  a Venus.  An  angry  Venus,  a 
Venus  agitated  by  revenge  and  wrath,  is,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  sculptor,  a perfect  contradiction : for 
love  as  love  is  neither  angry  nor  revengeful.  But 


CHAPTER  VIII 


105 


with  the  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  Venus  is  indeed 
also  love,  but  the  goddess  of  love,  who  besides  this 
character  has  an  individuality  of  her  own,  and 
must  in  consequence  be  as  capable  of  aversion  as  of 
affection.  What  marvel,  then,  that  in  his  work  she 
burns  with  rage  and  fury,  especially  where  it  is 
injured  love  itself  which  excites  them  in  her  ! 

It  is  indeed  true  that  the  artist  also,  as  well  as 
the  poet,  can  introduce  into  his  groups  Venus  or 
any  other  goddess  as  a really  acting  being,  in 
addition  to  her  general  character.  But  then  her 
actions  must  at  least  not  contradict  her  character, 
even  if  they  are  no  immediate  consequences  of  it. 
Venus  delivers  to  her  son  the  divine  weapons  : the 
artist  as  well  as  the  poet  can  represent  this  action. 
There  is  nothing  in  it  which  hinders  him  from 
giving  Venus  all  the  grace  and  beauty  which  belong 
to  her  as  goddess  of  love  : rather  by  this  act  is  she 
the  more  easily  recognised.  But  when  Venus  wishes 
to  revenge  herself  on  the  men  of  Lemnos,  who  have 
scorned  her,  and  in  the  form  of  a magnified  fury, 
with  spotted  cheeks,  disordered  hair,  seizes  upon 
a torch,  throws  a black  garment  around  her,  and 
departs  in  a storm,  borne  upon  a dark  cloud  : that 
is  no  moment  for  the  artist  to  choose,  because  in 
this  moment  he  has  no  power  to  make  the  goddess 
recognised.  It  is  a moment  only  for  the  poet, 
because  he  has  the  privilege  of  connecting  with  it 
so  closely  and  so  nearly  another  form  in  which  the 
goddess  is  altogether  Venus,  so  that  even  in  the 
fury  we  do  not  lose  sight  of  Venus.  This  is  what 
Flaccus  does : 

Neque  enim  alma  videri 
Jam  tumet : aut  tereti  crinem  subnectitur  auro 
Sidereos  diffusa  sinus.  Eadem  effera  et  ingens 
Et  maeulis  suffecta  genas  8 ; pinumque  sonantem 
Virginibus  Stygiis,  nigramque  simillima  pallam  9 

This  also  Statius  does  : 

Ilia  Paphon  veterem  centumque  altaria  linquens, 

Nec  vultu  nec  crine  prior,  solvisse  jugaleni 


106 


LAOCOON 


Ceston,  et  Idalias  procul  ablegasse  volncres 
Fertur.  Erant  certe,  media  qui  noctis  in  umbra 
Divain  alios  ignes  majoraque  tela  gerentem, 

Tartarias  inter  thalamis  volitasse  sorores 
Vulgarent : utque  implicitis  arcana  domorum 
Anguibus,  et  saeva  formidine  cuncta  replevit 
Limina  to 

In  other  words,  it  may  be  said  that  the  poet  alone 
possesses  the  artificial  power  of  painting  with 
negative  traits,  and,  by  the  mingling  of  negative 
with  positive  feature,  of  bringing  two  appearances 
into  one.  No  more  the  sweet  Yenus  ; no  more  the 
hair  fastened  with  golden  clasps  ; no  azure  garment 
floating  round  ; without  any  girdle  ; with  flames  of 
another  kind  ; armed  with  heavy  arrows ; in  the 
company  of  furies  like  herself.  But  while  the 
artist  must  lack  this  power,  shall  the  poet  abstain 
from  that  which  he  has  ? If  Painting  will  be  the 
sister  of  Poetry,  at  least  let  her  be  no  envious  sister, 
and  let  not  the  younger  deny  the  elder  all  the  robes 
which  she  cannot  wear  herself. 


CHAPTER  IX 


When  we  compare  the  painter  and  poet  with 
each  other  in  particular  instances,  it  is  above  all 
things  necessary  to  observe  carefully  whether  both 
have  had  their  full  liberty,  whether,  free  from  all 
external  compulsion,  they  have  been  able  to  bring 
their  art  to  its  highest  pitch. 

Religion  not  unfrequently  operated  as  such  an 
external  compulsion  to  the  ancient  artist.  His 
work,  destined  to  promote  worship  and  devotion, 
could  not  always  be  as  perfect  as  if  it  had  for  its 
single  object  the  satisfaction  of  the  spectator. 
Superstition  overloaded  the  gods  with  emblems, 
and  the  most  beautiful  among  them  were  not  uni- 
versally esteemed  as  the  most  beautiful  b Bacchus 
stood  in  his  temple  at  Lemnos,  from  which  the  pious 
Hypsipile  saved  her  father,  under  the  likeness  of 
the  god,  with  horns2,  and  so  undoubtedly  he  ap- 
peared in  ail  his  temples,  for  the  horns  were  an 
emblem  which  denoted  his  existence.  It  was  only 
the  free  artist,  who  did  not  sculpture  his  Bacchus 
for  any  temple,  who  could  leave  out  this  symbol ; 
and  when  among  the  statues  which  have  survived 
we  find  none  with  horns3,  this  is  perhaps  a proof 
that  these  were  not  in  the  category  of  consecrated 
statues  under  the  form  of  which  he  was  really 
worshipped.  It  is,  at  all  events,  highly  probable 
that  upon  such  the  wrath  of  the  pious  destroyers  in 
the  first  centuries  of  Christianity  especially  fell, 
which  only  here  and  there  spared  works  of  art 
unpolluted  by  worship4. 

As,  however,  among  the  excavated  antiques  some 
are  to  be  found  which  belong  to  both  kinds,  I could 
wish  that  we  only  appropriated  the  name  of  works 
107 


108 


LAOCOON 


of  art  to  those  in  which  the  artist  could  alone  show 
himself  as  an  artist,  in  which  beauty  had  been  his 
first  and  last  object.  Everything  else  in  which 
marked  traces  of  aptitude  for  devotional  purposes 
are  shown  does  not  deserve  this  name,  inasmuch  as 
in  these  the  Art  has  not  laboured  for  its  own  sake, 
but  merely  as  an  aid  to  religion,  and  in  the  sensible 
representations  presented  by  it  has  had  in  view 
rather  the  significant  than  the  beautiful,  although  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  she  has  not  often  included 
all  that  was  significant  in  what  was  beautiful,  or 
out  of  regard  for  the  Art,  and  the  finer  taste  of  the 
century,  has  not  left  out  so  much  of  the  significant 
as  would  allow  beauty  to  be  the  dominant  feature. 

Without  such  a distinction  as  this,  the  connoisseur 
and  the  antiquary  would  be  perpetually  at  variance, 
from  mutual  misunderstanding,  with  each  other. 
If  the  former,  according  to  his  insight  into  the 
vocation  of  the  Art,  maintains  that  the  ancient 
artist  has  never  done  this  or  that,  that  is,  not  as 
artist,  not  of  his  own  free  will,  the  latter  will  go 
further  and  maintain  that  neither  religion  nor  any 
cause  lying  outside  the  domain  of  Art  had  made  the 
artist  do  this,  that  is,  the  artist  considered  as  a mere 
worker  with  his  hand — and  so  the  antiquarian  will 
believe  that  he  has  been  able  to  contradict  the 
artist  by  producing  the  first  figure  that  he  found, 
which  the  artist  without  scruple,  but  to  the  great 
disgust  of  the  learned  world,  condemns  to  the  heap 
of  rubbish  from  which  it  was  taken5. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  possible  to  lay  too  great 
a stress  upon  the  influence  of  religion  over  Art. 
Spence  affords  a remarkable  instance  of  this.  He 
found  in  Ovid  that  Yesta  was  not  worshipped  in 
her  temple  under  any  personal  image,  and  this  fact 
he  thought  sufficient  to  warrant  the  conclusion  that 
there  had  been  no  images  of  this  goddess,  and  that 
whatever  had  hitherto  been  holden  to  be  such  was 
not  a Yesta  but  a Yestal 6.  A marvellous  conclusion  ! 
Did  the  artist  lose  his  right  with  regard  to  that 


CHAPTER  IX 


109 


being  to  whom  the  poets  had  given  a definite 
personality,  making  her  the  daughter  of  Saturn  and 
Ops,  fail  into  dangers,  be  subject  to  the  ill  treatment 
of  Priapus,  and  all  that  is  said  on  this  subject, — did 
he,  I say,  lose  his  right  to  personify  this  being 
according  to  his  own  art  because  in  one  temple  it 
was  only  worshipped  under  the  emblem  of  fire? 
For  Spence  also  commits  this  fault,  that  he  extends 
what  Ovid  says  of  a particular  temple  of  Vesta, 
namely,  of  the  one  at  Rome,  without  discrimination, 
to  all  temples 7 of  this  goddess,  and  to  her  worship 
generally.  She  was  not  universally  worshipped  as 
she  was  in  this  temple  at  Rome  : she  was,  indeed, 
not  worshipped  at  all  in  Italy  before  Numa  built 
her  a temple.  Numa  would  not  allow  any  divinity 
to  be  represented  in  human  or  animal  form ; and 
herein  doubtless  consisted  the  improvement  which 
he  introduced  into  the  worship  of  Vesta,  namely,  in 
forbidding  all  personal  representations  of  her.  Ovid 
himself  teaches  us  that  before  the  time  of  Numa 
there  were  images  of  Vesta  in  her  temples,  which, 
when  her  priestess  Sylvia  became  a mother,  lifted 
up  from  shame  their  virgin  hands  before  their  eyes8. 
As  to  the  temples  which  the  goddess  had  without 
the  city  in  the  Roman  provinces,  that  her  wmrship 
was  not  fully  conducted  in  the  manner  which  Numa 
had  prescribed  appears  to  follow  from  certain 
ancient  inscriptions  in  which  mention  was  made 
of  a Pontificis  Vestae9.  Also  at  Corinth  there  was 
a temple  of  Vesta  without  any  images,  with  a 
bare  altar  on  which  sacrifices  were  ottered  to  the 
goddess 10.  But  does  it  follow  that  the  Greeks  had 
no  statues  of  Vesta  ? At  Athens  there  was  one,  in 
the  Prytaneum,  near  the  statue  of  Peace11.  The 
people  of  Jasos  boasted  of  one  which  stood  under 
the  open  sky,  and  upon  which  neither  snow  nor  rain 
ever  fell12.  Pliny  mentions  a sitting  one  wrought 
by  the  hand  of  Scopas,  which,  in  his  time,  he  found 
at  Rome  in  the  Servilian  Gardens.  Let  it  be 
conceded  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  a mere 


110 


LAOCOON 


Vestal  from  a Vesta,  does  this  prove  that  they  were 
not  distinguished  by  the  ancients,  or  that  they 
would  not  distinguish  them?  Certain  attributes 
declare  more  plainly  for  the  one  than  the  other. 
The  sceptre,  the  torch,  the  palladium,  can  only  be 
surmised  to  have  been  in  the  hands  of  the  goddess. 
The  tympanum  which  Codinus  attributes  to  her 
perhaps  belonged  to  her  only  as  representing  the 
earth  ; or  Codinus  may  not  have  rightly  understood 
what  he  saw13. 


CHAPTER  X 


I must  notice  an  expression  of  wonder  on  the  part 
of  Spence  which  clearly  shows  how  little  he  must 
have  reflected  upon  the  boundaries  of  Poetry  and 
Painting. 

As1  to  the  Muses  in  general,  it  is  remarkable  that  the 
poets  say  but  little  of  them,  in  a descriptive  way  ; much 
less  than  might  be  expected  for  deities,  to  whom  they 
were  so  particularly  obliged. 

What  is  this  but  to  wonder  that  the  poet,  when 
he  speaks  of  them,  does  not  employ  the  dumb  speech 
of  the  painter  ? Urania  is  among  poets  the  muse  of 
astronomy  : from  her  name  and  her  functions  we 
recognise  her  office.  The  artist,  in  order  to  make 
this  intelligible,  must  explain  them  with  a staff*  upon 
a globe.  This  staff,  this  globe,  this  position,  are  his 
alphabet  out  of  which  he  composes  for  us  the  name 
of  Urania.  But  when  the  poet  wishes  to  say  : 
‘Urania  has  long  ago  foretold  his  death  from  the 
stars  ’ 

Ipsa  diu  inspectis  letura  praedixerat  astris 
Uranie  2 

why  should  he,  having  regard  to  the  painter,  add, 
‘Urania,  with  her  radius  in  her  hand,  the  celestial 
globe  before  her  V Would  it  not  be  much  the  same 
as  if  a man,  who  can  and  ought  to  speak  aloud,  were 
nevertheless  to  employ  the  signs  which  the  mutes  in 
a Turkish  seraglio  for  want  of  voice  have  invented  ? 
Spence  expresses  the  same  wonder  even  at  these 
moral  beings,  or  those  divinities  who,  according  to 
the  ancients,  preside  over  the  virtues  and  conduct 
of  human  life  :h 

It  is  observable,  he  says,  that  the  Roman  poets  say  less 
of  the  best  of  these  moral  beings  than  might  be  expected, 
ill 


112 


LAOCOON 


The  artists  are  much  fuller  on  this  head  ; and  one  who 
would  settle  what  appearances  each  of  them  made  should 
go  to  the  medals  of  the  Roman  emperors.  . . . They 
speak  of  them  often  as  persons  ; but  they  do  not  generally 
say  much  of  their  attributes  or  dress,  or  the  appearance 
they  make. 

When  the  poet  personifies  abstracta , they  are  suffi- 
ciently characterised  by  their  names,  and  by  what 
he  causes  them  to  do.  To  the  artist  these  means 
are  wanting.  He  is  obliged,  therefore,  to  attach 
emblems,  through  which  they  may  be  understood, 
to  his  personified  abstracta.  These  emblems,  because 
they  are  somewhat  different,  and  signify  something 
different,  make  the  figures  allegorical. 

A woman4  with  a bridle  in  her  hand,  another 
leaning  on  a pillar,  are  in  Art  allegorical  beings. 
Rut  moderation,  stedfastness,  are  with  the  poet  no 
allegorical  persons,  but  only  personified  abstracta. 

The  emblems  of  these  beings,  as  employed  by  the 
artist,  were  the  invention  of  necessity.  For  by  no 
other  means  can  he  make  intelligible  what  this  or 
the  other  figure  signifies.  Necessity  constrains  the 
artist,  but  why  should  the  poet,  who  knows  no  such 
necessity,  be  compelled  to  have  recourse  to  it  1 

That  which  surprises  Spence  so  much  ought  to  be 
prescribed  as  a rule  to  the  poets.  They  ought  not 
to  make  their  wealth  out  of  the  needs  of  the  Artist. 
They  are  not  to  consider  the  means  which  Art  has 
invented  in  order  to  come  near  to  Poetry  as  per- 
fections of  which  they  have  reason  to  be  envious. 
When  the  artist  decorates  a figure  with  emblems,  he 
elevates  a bare  figure  into  a higher  order  of  being. 
But  if  the  poet  employs  this  picturesque  apparel  of 
the  painter,  he  turns  his  higher  being  into  a doll. 

As  the  observance  of  this  rule  was  characteristic 
of  the  ancients,  so  is  the  intentional  transgression 
of  it  a favourite  fault  of  the  modern  poets.  All  the 
creatures  of  their  imagination  walk  in  masks,  and 
those  who  best  understand  these  masquerades  for 
the  most  part,  understand  the  least  the  true  end  of 


CHAPTER  X 


113 


their  work,  namely,  to  let  all  the  beings  of  their 
creation  act,  and  by  means  of  their  actions  display 
their  character. 

Yet  among  the  attributes  by  which  the  artists 
designate  their  abstract a,  there  is  a class  which  is 
more  susceptible  and  more  worthy  of  poetic  use.  I 
mean  those  attributes  which  are  not,  properly  speak- 
ing, allegorical,  but  which  may  be  considered  as 
instruments,  which  the  beings  to  whom  they  are 
given  can  and  may,  if  they  were  to  act  as  real 
persons,  use.  The  bridle  in  the  hand  of  Temperance, 
the  pillar  on  which  Steadfastness  leans,  are  purely 
allegorical,  and  of  no  use  to  the  poet.  The  scales  in 
the  hand  of  Justice  are  less  open  to  this  objection, 
because  the  right  use  of  the  scales  is  really  a part 
of  Justice.  The  lyre  or  the  dute  in  the  hand  of  a 
Muse,  the  lance  in  the  hand  of  Mars,  hammer  and 
tongs  in  the  hands  of  Vulcan,  are  in  no  respect 
emblems,  but  simply  instruments,  without  which 
these  beings  cannot  produce  the  effects  which  we 
ascribe  to  them.  Of  this  kind  are  the  attributes 
which  the  ancient  poets  sometimes  interweave  in 
their  descriptions,  and  which  on  this  account,  in 
order  to  distinguish  them  from  the  allegorical  class, 
I would  call  poetical.  The  latter  signify  the  thing 
itself,  the  former  only  something  resembling  it5. 


I 


CHAPTER  XI 


Even  Count  Caylus  seems  to  require  that  the 
poet  shall  adorn  the  creatures  of  his  imagination 
with  allegorical  attributes1.  The  Count  understood 
Painting  better  than  Poetry.  Nevertheless,  the 
work  in  which  he  expresses  this  desire  has  suggested 
to  me  higher  considerations,  the  more  important  of 
which  I here  notice  for  the  purpose  of  deliberately 
examining  them. 

The  artist,  according  to  the  Count’s  opinion, 
should  make  himself  more  familiar  with  the  greatest 
painter-poets2,  with  Homer  as  with  a second  nature. 
The  Count  points  out  to  the  artist  what  rich  and 
insufficiently-used  materials  for  the  most  excellent 
painting,  history,  as  treated  by  the  Greeks,  can 
supply,  and  how  his  execution  as  an  artist  will  be 
the  more  perfect  the  more  closely  he  attends  to  the 
least  circumstances  which  are  noticed  by  the  poet. 

In  this  proposition  the  two  kinds  of  imitation 
which  we  have  just  separated  are  mixed  together. 
The  painter  (it  is  here  suggested)  should  not  only 
imitate  what  the  poet  has  imitated,  but  he  should 
also  imitate  it  in  the  same  traits  ; he  should  use  the 
poet  not  only  as  a narrator,  but  as  a poet. 

But  why  should  this  second  kind  of  imitation, 
which  is  so  derogatory  to  the  poet,  not  also  be  so  to 
the  painter  ? If  there  had  been  present  to  Homer 
such  a series  of  pictures  as  Count  Caylus  derives 
from  him,  and  we  knew  that  the  poet  had  taken  his 
work  from  these  pictures  ; would  not  our  admiration 
of  him  be  immeasurably  lessened?  How  does  it 
happen  that  we  withdraw  none  of  our  high  esteem 
from  the  artist,  when  he  does  no  more  than  express 
the  words  of  the  poem  in  forms  and  colours  ? 


CHAPTER  XI 


115 


The  cause  appears  to  be  this  : With  the  artist 
execution  appears  to  be  more  difficult  than  inven- 
tion. With  the  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  the  case 
seems  to  be  reversed,  and  his  execution  appears  to 
be  an  easier  achievement  than  his  invention.  If 
Virgil  had  taken  the  entwining  of  Laocoon  and  his 
children  from  the  group  of  the  sculptor,  then  that 
merit  which,  in  his  work,  we  hold  to  be  the  greatest 
and  most  considerable,  would  be  wanting,  and  the 
lesser  merit  alone  remain.  For  to  create  this  en- 
twining in  the  imagination  is  a far  greater  achieve- 
ment than  the  expression  of  it  in  words.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  the  artist  had  borrowed  this  entwining 
from  the  poet  he  would  still,  in  our  estimation,  have 
attained  sufficient  merit,  although  the  merit  of  in- 
vention would  have  been  wanting.  For  expression 
in  marble  is  infinitely  more  difficult  than  expression 
in  words  ; and  when  we  weigh  against  each  other 
invention  and  representation,  we  are  always  inclined 
to  make  allowance  to  the  artist  for  what  he  is 
wanting  in  one  respect,  accordingly  as  we  think 
that  he  has  exceeded  in  another.  There  are,  indeed, 
cases  in  which  it  is  a greater  merit  in  the  artist  to 
have  imitated  nature  through  the  medium  of  the 
poet  than  without  it. 

The  painter  who,  in  imitation  of  the  description 
of  a Thomson,  has  represented  a beautiful  landscape, 
has  done  more  than  one  who  has  copied  directly 
from  nature.  The  latter  sees  the  original  picture 
before  him,  the  former  must  first  strengthen  his 
power  of  imagination  until  he  believes  that  he 
sees  the  picture  before  him.  The  former,  out  of  a 
lively  impression  on  the  senses,  creates  something 
beautiful ; the  latter,  out  of  a slender  and  feeble 
representation  of  arbitrary  signs,  produces  the 
same  result. 

But  natural  as  our  readiness  to  allow  the  artist 
the  merit  of  invention  may  be,  not  less  natural  is  it 
that  an  indifference  should  arise  on  his  part  to  this 
kind  of  merit.  For,  seeing  that  invention  could  not 


116 


LAOCOON 


be  his  brilliant  side,  and  that  his  greatest  praise 
depended  on  execution,  it  was  almost  a matter  of 
indifference  to  him  whether  the  invention  was  old 
or  new,  used  once  or  an  indefinite  number  of  times, 
whether  it  belonged  to  him  or  to  another.  He 
remained  within  the  limited  circle  of  a few  subjects, 
generally  well  known  to  himself  and  the  public,  and 
expended  his  whole  power  of  invention  upon  merely 
effecting  changes  in  them  by  new  combinations  of 
old  objects.  This  is  really  the  idea  winch  the 
painters5  elementary  books  connect  with  the  word 
invention.  For  although  they  divide  it  into 
picturesque  and  poetical,  the  poetical  is  not  con- 
cerned with  producing  the  design  itself,  but  simply 
with  the  arrangem  ent  or  expression 8.  It  is  invention, 
but  not  the  invention  of  the  whole,  but  of  particular 
portions  and  of  their  relative  position.  It  is  in- 
vention, but  of  that  inferior  kind  which  Horace 
recommends  to  his  tragic  poet : 

Tuque 

Eectius  Iliacum  carmen  deducis  in  actus 

Quam  si  proferres  ignota  indictaque  primus  4 

Eecommended,  I say,  but  not  commanded ; recom- 
mended as  easier,  more  becoming  to,  more  advan- 
tageous for  him  ; but  not  commanded  as  better  and 
nobler  in  itself. 

In  fact,  the  poet  has  made  a great  step  in  advance, 
who  has  treated  of  known  history  and  known 
characters.  He  can  pass  over  a hundred  cold  details 
which  would  otherwise  be  necessary  for  the  under- 
standing of  the  whole  subject ; and  the  sooner  he 
becomes  intelligible  to  his  audience  the  more  speedily 
will  they  be  interested  in  him.  The  painter  also 
possesses  this  advantage,  when  his  design  is  not 
strange  to  us,  when  at  the  first  glance  we  recognise 
the  intention  and  meaning  of  his  entire  composition  ; 
when  we,  in  one  word,  not  only  see  his  characters 
speak,  but  also  hear  what  they  say.  The  principal 
effect  depends  upon  the  first  glance,  and  when  this 


CHAPTER  XI 


117 


compels  us  to  have  recourse  to  wearisome  reflections 
and  deliberations,  our  desire  to  be  interested  grows 
cold ; and  in  order  to  revenge  ourselves  upon  the 
unintelligent  artist,  we  harden  ourselves  against 
the  expression  ; and  woe  to  him,  if  he  has  sacrificed 
beauty  to  expression  ! In  that  case  we  find  nothing 
to  entice  us  to  linger  over  his  work  : what  we  see 
does  not  please  us,  and  what  we  ought  to  think 
about  it  we  do  not  know. 

Now,  let  us  take  the  two  propositions  together  : 
first,  that  the  invention5  and  novelty  of  subject  are 
by  no  means  the  principal  things  which  we  require 
from  the  painter;  secondly,  that  a well-known 
subject  forwards  and  assists  the  effect  of  his  art ; 
and  I think  that  the  reason  why  he  so  seldom  under- 
takes a new  subject  is  not,  as  Count  Caylus  supposes, 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  convenience,  or  on  account 
of  his  ignorance,  or  on  account  of  the  difficulty  of 
the  mechanical  part  of  the  Art,  which  requires  all 
his  industry  and  all  his  time  ; but  the  reason  has  a 
deeper  foundation,  and  perhaps  what  at  first  sight 
appears  to  be  a limitation  imposed  on  his  art,  and 
a diminution  of  our  satisfaction,  we  should  rather 
be  inclined  to  praise  as  a wise  and  intrinsically 
useful  restraint  on  the  part  of  the  artist  himself.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  being  contradicted  on  this  point  by 
experience.  The  painter  would  thank  the  Count  for 
his  goodwill,  but  would  scarcely  avail  himself  of  it 
so  generally  as  he  expects.  But  if  it  were  other- 
wise, then  every  hundred  years  a new  Caylus  would 
be  necessary  to  recall  to  our  recollection  the  old 
subjects,  and  bring  back  the  artist  into  that  field 
where  others  before  him  had  failed  to  gain  immor- 
tality for  their  laurels.  Or  is  it  desired  that  the 
public  should  have  the  same  learning  which  the 
connoisseur  derives  from  his  books,  that  all  the 
scenes  of  history  and  of  fable  which  could  furnish  a 
beautiful  picture  should  be  familiarly  known  to  it  ? 
I grant  that  the  artists  would  have  done  better  it’, 
since  the  time  of  Raffaello,  they  had  taken  Homer 


118 


LAOCOON 


for  their  hand-book  instead  of  Ovid.  But  as  that 
has  not  once  happened,  we  must  leave  the  public  in 
the  beaten  path,  and  not  put  more  acid  into  its 
pleasure  than  in  the  nature  of  things  pleasure  itself 
requires. 

Protogenes  had  painted  the  mother  of  Aristotle. 
I do  not  know  how  much  the  philosopher  paid  him 
for  it,  but  either  instead  of  payment,  or  over  and 
above  his  payment,  he  gave  him  a piece  of  advice, 
which  was  worth  more  than  the  payment.  For  I 
cannot  fancy  that  his  advice  was  mere  flattery. 
But  because  he  considered  that  the  principal 
requisite  of  Art  was  to  be  intelligible  to  all,  he 
advised  him  to  paint  the  exploits  of  Alexander ; 
exploits  of  which  at  that  time  all  the  world  was 
speaking,  and  which  he  could  foresee  would  not  be 
forgotten  by  posterity.  But  Protogenes  was  not 
steady  enough  to  follow  this  advice.  ‘Impetus 
animi,J  says'  Pliny,  £ et  quaedam  artis  libido  * 6 — a 
certain  insolence  of  art,  a certain  craving  after  the 
strange  and  the  unknown,  drove  him  into  entirely 
different  subjects.  He  preferred  to  paint  the  history 
of  a certain  Ialysus 7 and  of  a certain  Cydippe,  and 
of  others  of  the  same  character,  as  to  which  paintings 
we  can  no  longer  conjecture  what  they  were  intended 
to  represent. 


CHAPTEK  XII 


Homer  creates  two  classes  of  beings  and  of  actions, 
visible  and  invisible.  Painting  is  incompetent  to 
represent  this  difference ; with  it  everything  is 
visible,  and  visible  after  one  fashion  only. 

When  the  Count  Caylus  places  the  invisible 
actions  in  unbroken  sequence  with  the  visible,  when 
in  these  pictures  of  mixed  actions  in  which  visible 
and  invisible  beings  take  their  part,  he  does  not 
indicate,  and  perhaps  cannot  indicate,  how  the 
latter  (which  only  we  who  consider  the  picture  can 
discover  in  it)  are  so  to  be  brought  into  relation 
with  the  former,  that  the  persons  in  the  picture 
do  not  see  them,  or  at  least  must  of  necessity  not 
appear  to  see  them, — then  also  of  necessity  the 
whole  series  of  the  pictures,  as  well  as  many  iso- 
lated portions  of  it,  become  extremely  perplexing, 
unintelligible,  and  contradictory. 

Yet  it  would  be  possible,  with  the  book  in  one’s 
hand,  to  remedy  this  fault.  The  worst  consequence 
is  this,  that  as  the  distinction  between  visible  and 
invisible  is  taken  away  by  the  painter,  all  the  charac- 
teristic features  are  immediately  lost,  by  means  of 
which  this  higher  kind  is  elevated  above  the  lesser. 

For  instance:  when  at  last  the  gods,  who  are 
divided  as  to  the  fate  of  the  Trojans,  come  to  blows : 
with  the  poet1  all  this  battle  is  represented  as  in- 
visible, and  this  invisibility  permits  the  imagination 
to  widen  the  scene,  and  leaves  it  free  scope2  to 
represent  to  itself  the  persons  of  the  gods  and  their 
actions  as  gigantic,  and  as  far  above  ordinary 
humanity  as  it  pleases.  But  painting  must  adopt 
a visible  scene,  the  various  dimensions  of  which, 
necessarily  known  to  us,  must  furnish  the  standard 

119 


120 


LAOCOON 


for  the  persons  who  are  to  act  in  it,  a standard 
which  the  eye  has  close  to  it,  and  the  disproportion 
of  which  to  these  higher  beings  causes  these  higher 
beings  which  the  poet  had  represented  as  huge  to 
become  on  the  canvas  of  the  artist  enormous. 

Minerva,  upon  whom  Mars  in  this  battle  makes 
the  first  onset,  steps  back,  and  snatches  in  her 
mighty  hands  from  the  earth  a dark,  rough,  huge 
stone,  which  in  ancient  days  the  united  force  of 
men’s  hands  had  rolled  there  for  a boundary. 

*H  5'  avax^caaiuLeurj  \lQov  e'iAero  XeLP 1 
Kel/uevov  ev  ned 'up,  fieXava,  rpr\x^v  re,  /ueyav  re 
T&v  p &v5pes  'Kp6repoi  Qeaav  efi/aevat  ovpoi'  apovprjs  3 

In  order  properly  to  estimate  the  greatness  of 
this  stone,  we  must  remember  that  Homer  makes 
his  heroes  for  the  nonce  as  strong  as  the  strongest 
man  in  .his  day ; but  he  makes  those  men  whom 
Nestor  knew  in  his  youth  surpass  them  in  strength. 
Now,  I ask,  with  respect  to  this  stone,  which  not 
one  man  out  of  the  men  of  Nestor’s  youthful  con- 
temporaries could  have  put  down  for  a boundary 
stone, — now,  I ask,  if  Minerva  had  thrown  such  a 
stone  at  Mars,  of  what  stature  must  the  goddess 
be?  If  her  stature  is  to  be  proportioned  to  the 
greatness  of  the  stone,  then  the  wonder  ceases.  A 
man  who  is  three  times  larger  than  I am  must 
naturally  be  able  to  throw  a stone  three  times 
greater.  But  if  the  stature  of  the  goddess  be  not 
proportioned  to  the  greatness  of  the  stone,  then 
there  arises  an  evident  improbability  in  the  paint- 
ing, the  repulsiveness  of  which  is  not  removed  by 
the  cold  reflection  that  a goddess  must  have  super- 
human strength.  Where  I see  an  effect  greater 
than  usual,  I expect  to  find  an  instrument  greater 
than  usual.  And  Mars  overthrown  by  this  mighty 
stone, 

'Enra  5’  eir ecrx*  vi\eBpa 

‘ covered  seven  acres  ’.  It  is  impossible  that  the 


CHAPTER  XII 


121 


painter  could  give  this  extraordinary  size  to  the 
god,  but  if  he  does  not  give  it  him,  then  Mars 
does  not  lie  upon  the  ground  like  the  Homeric 
Mars,  but  like  a common  warrior4.  Longinus  says, 
it  often  occurs  to  him  that  Homer  had  intended  to 
elevate  his  men  to  the  rank  of  gods,  and  to  degrade 
his  gods  to  the  rank  of  men.  Painting  carries 
this  degradation  into  execution.  In  it  everything 
vanishes  which  in  the  hands  of  the  poet  made  the 
gods  superior  to  the  god-like  men.  Greatness, 
strength,  speed,  qualities  which  Homer  keeps  in 
reserve  for  his  gods  in  a higher  and  more  wonderful 
degree  than  those  which  he  attributes  to  his  best 
heroes,  must,  in  the  painting5,  sink  down  to  the 
level  of  the  common  measure  of  humanity,  and 
Jupiter  and  Agamemnon,  Apollo  and  Achilles,  Ajax 
and  Mars,  become  entirely  beings  of  the  same  kind, 
who  can  only  be  distinguished  by  certain  outward 
conventional  signs.  The  means  which  Painting 
uses  in  order  to  make  us  understand  that,  in  her 
composition,  this  or  that  object  must  be  considered 
as  invisible,  is  a thin  cloud,  in  which  the  object  is 
concealed  on  the  side  which  is  turned  towards  the 
actors.  This  cloud  appears  to  have  been  borrowed 
from  Homer  himself.  For  when  in  the  tumult  of 
the  fight  one  of  the  more  important  heroes  gets  into 
danger,  from  which  only  divine  aid  can  save  him, 
the  poet  makes  a protecting  deity  cover  him  with 
a thick  cloud,  or  with  night,  and  so  rescues  him, 
as  Paris  is  saved  by  Venus6,  Idaeus  by  Neptune7, 
Hector  by  Apollo.8  And  this  mist,  this  cloud,  Caylus 
does  not  forget  to  recommend  strongly  to  the  artist, 
when  he  sketches  out  for  him  the  picture  of  such 
events.  Rut  who  does  not  see  that  the  poet  can 
only  use  this  veiling  in  mist  and  night  as  a poetical 
mode  of  describing  invisibility  ? It  has  always 
amazed  me  to  find  this  poetical  expression  reduced 
to  reality,  and  a real  cloud  put  into  the  picture, 
behind  which  the  hero,  as  behind  a screen,  stands 
concealed  from  his  foe.  This  was  not  the  intention 


122 


LAOCOON 


of  the  poet.  This  is  to  go  beyond  the  limits  of 
painting  ; for  this  cloud  is  here  a real  hieroglyphic, 
a mere  symbolical  sign  which  does  not  render  the 
rescued  hero  invisible,  but  appeals  to  the  spectator 
to  consider  him  as  invisible.  It  is  no  better  than 
the  scrap  of  writing  which  comes  out  of  the  mouth 
of  persons  in  the  old  Gothic  paintings. 

It  is  true  that  Homer  makes  Achilles,  when  Apollo 
delivers  Hector  from  him  three  times,  thrust  his 
lance  into  the  thick  cloud  : rpls  5’  r)€pa  rvif/e  J3a0€iay9. 
But  that  in  poetical  language  means  no  more  than 
that  Achilles  was  so  furious  that  he  three  times 
thrust  forward  his  lance  without  perceiving  that 
his  foe  was  no  longer  before  him.  Achilles  saw  no 
real  cloud,  and  the  whole  artifice,  by  which  the  gods 
are  made  invisible,  does  not  consist  in  the  cloud,  but 
in  the  speedy  withdrawal  of  the  person.  Only  in 
order  to  point  out  that  the  withdrawal  is  so  rapidly 
effected  that  no  mortal  eye  can  follow  the  figure 
which  is  withdrawn,  the  poet  previously  wraps  him 
in  a mist;  not  in  order  that  a cloud  may  be  seen 
instead  of  the  withdrawn  body,  but  that  we  may 
consider  that  which  is  veiled  in  a mist  as  invisible. 
With  this  view  he  sometimes  reverses  the  state  of 
things,  and  instead  of  making  the  object  invisible, 
smites  the  subject  witli  blindness.  Thus  Neptune 
darkens  the  eyes  of  Achilles  when  he  rescues  Aeneas 
from  his  murdering  hands,  whom  he  with  a single 
effort  removes  from  the  middle  of  the  crowd  at 
once  into  the  rear10.  In  fact,  however,  the  eyes  of 
Achilles  are  as  little  darkened  in  this  instance  as  in 
the  other  instance,  when  the  rescued  hero  is  veiled  in 
mist ; but  the  poet  uses  the  one  and  the  other  only 
for  the  purpose  of  making  apparent  the  extreme 
swiftness  of  the  withdrawal  which  we  call  vanish- 
ing. But  the  painters  have  not  only  appropriated 
the  Homeric  cloud  in  those  cases  in  which  Homer 
had,  or  would  have  used  it,  that  is,  on  occasions  of 
invisibility  'or  vanishing;  but  on  every  occasion 
when  the  spectator  ought  to  perceive  in  the  picture 


CHAPTER  XII 


123 


what  the  persons  in  the  picture,  either  all  or  part 
of  them,  cannot  perceive.  Minerva  was  visible  to 
Achilles  alone  when  she  restrained  him  from  pro- 
ceeding to  violence  against  Agamemnon.  In  order 
to  express  this,  Caylus  says  : ‘ I know  no  other  way 
than  that  he  should  be  concealed  in  a cloud  from 
the  rest  of  the  assembled  council7.  This  is  alto- 
gether against  the  spirit  of  the  poet.  To  be  in- 
visible is  the  natural  condition  of  the  gods.  They 
require  no  blinding  and  no  cutting  off  of  the  rays 
of  light  in  order  to  be  invisible,  but  they  require11 
an  illumination  and  an  elevation  of  the  mortal 
countenance  when  they  wish  to  be  seen.  Nor  is  it 
sufficient  that  the  cloud  is  to  the  painter  an  arbi- 
trary and  not  a natural  sign  : this  arbitrary  sign 
has  never  the  distinct  significance  which  as  such  it 
should  have,  because  it  is  employed  as  well  for  the 
purpose  of  making  what  is  visible  invisible,  as  of 
making  what  is  invisible  visible12. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


If  Homer’s  works  were  entirely  lost,  if  we  had 
nothing  remaining  of  his  Iliad  and  Odyssey  but  a 
series  of  pictures  like  those  which  Caylus  put  forth, 
should  we  from  these  pictures — let  them  be  drawn 
by  the  hand  of  the  most  perfect  master — be  able  to 
form  the  idea  which  we  now  have,  I will  not  say  of 
the  poet  altogether,  but  merely  of  his  talent  for 
painting  ? Let  us  make  a trial  of  the  first  and  best 
piece.  Let  it  be  the  picture  of  the  pestilence1.  What 
do  we  see  on  the  canvass  of  the  painter? — Dead 
corpses,  burning  funeral  piles,  dying  men  busied 
with  the  dead,  an  angry  god  shooting  his  arrows 
from  a cloud  upon  the  people.  The  greatest  wealth 
of  this  picture  is  the  poverty  of  the  poet.  For  if 
we  were  to  restore  Homer  from  this  picture,  what 
could  we  say  ? — ‘ Hereupon  Apollo  was  angry,  and 
shot  his  arrows  into  the  hosts  of  Greeks,  many 
Greeks  died,  and  their  corpses  were  burnt’.  How 
read  Homer  himself : 

B? ) de  tear * ObXvy.iroio  xapriucov,  x^o/ievos  xrjp , 

To|5  &jJLOicnv  afj.(f)rjp€(p€a  re  tyaperpriv 

''F.xXay^av  5*  &/>’  o'icrrol  eir’  tafioov  x^o^^olo, 

Avtov  Kivr\Qevros • 6 5 ’ fl'Ce  vvtzrl  eoixws' 

"E £er’  €7r eir  arravevQe  vevv,  jxera.  d 5 ibv  erjKew 
Aeiv)]  KAayyfy  y ever’  apyvpeoio  fiioio. 

Ovprjas  /lev  tv poorov  h r^X6T0>  xal  kvvols  apyovs' 

Avrap  eneir*  avrottfi  fieXos  ex^^vfces  etyiels 

BaAA’*  aiel  de  tt upal  vexvwv  xaiovro  Oaueiai  2 II.  A 44-52. 

As  far  as  life  transcends  a picture,  so  far  does  the 
poet  here  transcend  the  painter.  In  grim  rage, 
armed  with  bow  and  quiver,  Apollo  steps  down 
from  the  ramparts  of  Olympus.  I not  only  see  him 

124 


CHAPTER  XIII 


125 


descend,  I hear  him.  At  every  step  the  arrows 
rattle  on  the  shoulders  of  the  wrathful  god  ; he 
marches  onward  like  the  night.  Now  he  seats  him- 
self opposite  the  ships,  and  lets  fly — fearful  is  the 
sound  of  the  silver  bow — the  first  arrow  upon  the 
beasts  of  burden  and  the  dogs.  Then,  with  a more 
poisoned  arrow,  he  pierces  the  men  themselves ; 
and,  everywhere,  incessantly,  blazes  up  the  funeral 
pile  with  corpses.  It  is  impossible  to  translate  into 
another  tongue  the  musical  painting  which  the 
words  of  the  poet  convey  to  us.  It  is  as  impossible 
to  form  an  idea  of  it  from  the  material  painting, 
though  that  is  among  the  least  of  the  advantages 
which  the  poetical  picture  has  over  the  other.  The 
principal  advantage  is  this,  that  the  poet  leads  us 
through  a whole  gallery  of  pictures  to  the  one 
which  the  material  painting  has  borrowed  from  him. 
But  perhaps  the  pestilence  is  not  a favourable  sub- 
ject for  painting.  Here  is  another  which  has  more 
charms  for  the  eye.  The  Banqueting  Gods  at 
Council 3 ; the  open  golden  palace.  Groups  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  dignified  figures  placed  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  the  painter.  Hebe,  eternal  youth, 
ministering  with  a goblet  in  her  hand.  What  archi- 
tecture ! What  masses  of  light  and  shade  ! What 
contrasts  ! What  manifold  variety  of  expression  ! 
Where  shall  I begin  ? Where  shall  I cease  to  feed 
my  eye?  If  the  painter  so  bewitches  me,  how 
much  more  will  the  poet  do  so  ! I open  his  volume, 

and  I find  myself -deceived.  I find  four  good 

plain  lines,  which  might  be  used  as  an  inscription 
on  the  picture,  in  which  lies  the  material  for  a 
picture,  but  which  are  no  picture  themselves  : 

Oi  5e  Oeol  7r ap  Zrjvl  icaQiifievoi  yyopioovTO 

Xpvaecp  iu  dairtSy  /xera  Se  a(pi(U  ndryia  "H/3 tj 

Nexrap  icpvoxdei'  rol  5e  XPV(X*0LS  8e7r aetrcriv 

A eid4xaTi  aAA^Aous,  Tpcocov  eicropoccvres 4 


An  Apollonius,  or  even  a yet  inferior  poet,  could 
not  have  written  more  poorly ; and  here  Homer 


126 


LAOCOON 


remains  as  far  below  the  painter  as  the  painter,  in 
the  other  subject,  remained  below  him.  It  is  to  be 
observed  that  Caylus,  in  the  whole  fourth  book  of 
the  Iliad , finds  no  other  picture  than  the  one 
represented  in  these  four  lines. 

Whatever  effect,  he  says,  this  fourth  book  may  produce 
through  the  manifold  incitements  to  combat,  through  the 
abundance  of  brilliant  and  marked  characters,  and  through 
the  skill  with  which  the  poet  shows  us  the  multitudes  whom 
he  sets  in  motion  ; nevertheless  this  book  is  wholly  useless 
to  the  painter. 

lie  might  have  added  to  this  : however  rich  it  may 
be  in  what  is  called  poetical  painting  ; for  in  truth 
there  are  to  be  found  in  this  fourth  book  as  many 
and  as  perfect  poetical  paintings  as  in  any  other 
book.  Where  is  there  a more  finished  picture,  one 
more  fraught  with  illusion,  than  that  of  Pandarus, 
when,  at  the  instigation  of  Minerva,  he  breaks  the 
truce,  and  lets  fly  his  arrow  at  Menelaus  ? — than 
that  of  the  advance  of  the  Greek  host  ? — than  that 
of  the  simultaneous  attack  of  both  armies  ? — than 
that  of  the  act  of  Ulysses,  by  which  he  avenges  the 
death  of  his  Leucus  ? 

But  what  is  the  inference  from  this  ? That  not  a 
few  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  of  Homer  afford 
no  pictures  for  the  artist, — that  the  artist  can  ex- 
tract pictures  from  him  where  he  himself  had  none ! 
That  those  which  he  had,  and  which  the  artist 
could  use,  would  be  only  very  poor  pictures  indeed, 
if  they  exhibited  no  more  than  the  artist  exhibits  ! 
What  is  the  final  conclusion?  That  my  question, 
put  at  the  beginning  of  this  paragraph,  must  be 
answered  in  the  negative  ; that  from  the  material 
pictures  for  which  the  poems  of  Homer  furnish 
the  subject,  be  they  ever  so  many,  and  ever  so 
excellent,  no  conclusion  can  be  drawn  as  to  the 
pictorial  talent  of  the  poet. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 


But  is  it  so  ? and  can  a poem  be  very  useful  to 
the  painter,  and  yet  be  in  itself  not  picturesque ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  can  another  be  very 
picturesque,  and  yet  be  of  no  avail  to  the  painter  h 
Then  there  is  an  end  to  the  idea  of  Count  Caylus, 
which  makes  the  usefulness  of  the  poet  to  the 
painter  the  touchstone  of  poets,  and  fixes  their  rank 
according  to  the  number  of  pictures  which  they 
afford  to  the  artist1. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  permit,  even  by  our  silence, 
this  to  acquire  the  semblance  of  a rule.  Milton 
would  be  the  first  innocent  sacrifice.  For  it  really 
appears  probable  that  the  scornful  sentence  of  con- 
demnation which  Caylus  passes  upon  him  is  not  so 
much  the  result  of  national  taste  as  the  consequence 
of  this  supposed  rule.  The  loss  of  his  sight,  he  says, 
is  the  principal  feature  of  resemblance  which  Milton 
had  to  Homer.  Indeed,  Milton  can  fill  no  picture 
galleries.  But  if  it  were  a necessary  condition  of 
my  preserving  bodily  eyesight  that  the  sphere  of  it 
should  also  be  the  sphere  of  my  mind's  eye,  then  I 
should  consider  the  loss  of  the  former,  if  it  set  me 
free  from  such  a limitation,  as  a great  gain  2. 

Paradise  Lost , therefore,  is  not  the  less  the  first 
epic  poem  after  that  of  Homer  because  it  offers  few 
pictures  ; even  as  the  history  of  our  Lord’s  Passion 
is  not  a poem  because  one  can  scarcely  touch,  even 
with  the  point  of  a needle,  a passage  in  it  which  lias 
not  furnished  material  to  a multitude  of  the  greatest 
artists.  The  Evangelists  narrate  the  facts  with  all 
possible  dryness  and  simplicity,  and  the  artist  avails 
himself  of  the  different  portions  of  their  narrative, 
though  they  on  their  part  have  not  manifested  the 


128 


LAOCOON 


slightest  spark  of  pictorial  genius.  There  are 
picturesque  and  unpicturesque  facta , and  the  his- 
torian can  narrate  in  a very  unpicturesque  manner 
those  that  are  most  picturesque,  even  as  the  poet  is 
able  to  represent  in  a picturesque  manner  those 
that  are  most  unpicturesque3.  To  understand  it 
otherwise  is  to  allow  yourself  to  be  deceived  by  an 
equivocal  expression.  A poetical  picture  is  not 
necessarily  that  which  can  be  changed  into  a ma- 
terial picture ; but  every  trait,  every  combination 
of  several  traits  through  which  the  poet  renders  his 
object  so  sensible  to  us,  that  we  become  better 
acquainted  with  this  object  than  with  his  words,  is 
called  picturesque , is  called  a picture , because  it 
brings  us  nearer  to  the  degree  of  illusion  which  the 
material  picture  is  especially  capable  of  exciting, 
and  which  in  the  first  instance,  and  most  easily, 
results  from  the  subject  of  the  material  picture4. 


CHAPTER  XY 


Now  it  is  also  in  the  power  of  the  poet,  as  ex- 
perience shows  ns,  to  elevate  to  this  degree  of 
illusion  the  representation  of  objects  other  than 
those  that  are  visible.  Consequently  the  artist 
must  necessarily  forgo  whole  classes  of  pictures 
which  the  poet  has  before  him.  Dryden’s  Ode  on 
St.  Cecilia’s  Day  is  full  of  musical  pictures  which  the 
pencil  cannot  touch,  but  I will  not  waste  my  time 
in  such  examples  as  these,  from  which,  after  all,  one 
does  not  learn  much  more  than  that  colours  are  not 
tones,  and  that  ears  are  not  eyes.  I will  confine 
myself  to  the  consideration  of  pictures  of  purely 
visible  objects,  which  are  common  to  the  poet  and 
painter.  How  comes  it  to  pass  that  many  poetical 
pictures  of  this  kind  are  of  no  use  to  the  painter, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  how  many  pictures,  properly 
so-called,  lose  the  greatest  part  of  their  effect  under 
the  treatment  of  the  poet  ? 

Examples  must  guide  me.  I repeat  it : the  picture 
of  Pandarus  in  the  fourth  book  of  the  Iliad  is  one  of 
the  most  finished  and  the  most  fraught  with  illu- 
sions of  any  in  Homer.  From  the  grasp  of  the  bow 
to  the  flight  of  the  arrow  every  moment  is  painted, 
and  all  these  moments  are  so  close  to  each  other, 
and  yet  so  distinct,  that  if  one  did  not  know  how  to 
manage  a bow,  one  might  learn  it  from  this  picture 
alone  h 

Pandarus  bends  his  bow  before  him,  fastens  the 
string  to  it,  opens  his  quiver,  chooses  a new  and 
well-leathered  arrow,  puts  the  arrow  on  the  string, 
draws  back  the  string  with  the  arrow  ; the  string 
is  close  to  his  breast,  the  iron  barb  of  the  arrow 
rests  on  the  bow,  the  great  rounded  bow  resounds 


130 


LAOCOOX 


as  it  stretches,  the  string  whirrs,  the  arrow  springs 
forth,  and  eagerly  flies  to  its  mark.  Cay  Ins  cannot 
have  overlooked  this  admirable  picture.  What  was 
it  he  found  therein  which  led  him  to  think  it  in- 
capable of  occupying  the  artist  ? and  what  was  it 
which  made  him  think  that  the  assembly  of  the 
banqueting  gods  in  council  was  more  useful  for  this 
purpose  ? Here,  as  well  as  there,  are  visible  objects, 
and  what  does  the  painter  want  more  than  visible 
objects  to  cover  his  canvas  ? 

The  knot  of  the  difficulty  must  be  this.  Although 
both  objects,  so  far  as  they  are  visible,  are  equally 
susceptible  of  being  painted,  in  the  proper  sense  of 
the  word,  there  is  nevertheless  this  essential  differ- 
ence between  them  : that  the  former  is  a visible 
action  in  progress,  the  different  parts  of  which,  by 
degrees,  and  in  succession  of  time,  develope  them- 
selves ; the  latter,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a visible, 
stationary  action,  the  different  parts  of  which  un- 
fold themselves,  one  next  to  the  other,  in  space.  But 
if  painting,  on  account  of  the  signs  and  means  of 
imitation  which  it  employs,  and  which  can  only  be 
combined  in  space,  must  entirely  renounce  time, 
then  progressive  actions  cannot,  in  so  far  as  they 
are  progressive,  be  included  in  the  number  of  its 
subjects,  bat  it  must  content  itself  with  co-existent 
actions,  or  with  mere  bodies,  which,  on  account  of 
their  position,  cause  an  action  to  be  suspected. 
Poetry,  on  the  other  hand, 


CHAPTEB  XVI 


But  I will  try  to  consider  the  matter  upon  first 
principles.  I reason  in  this  way.  If  it  be  true  that 
Painting,  in  its  imitations,  makes  use  of  entirely 
different  means  and  signs  from  those  which  Poetry 
employs  ; the  former  employing  figures  and  colours 
in  space,  the  latter  articulate  sounds  in  time, — if, 
incontestably,  signs  must  have  a proper  relation  to 
the  thing  signified,  then  co-existent  signs  can  only 
express  objects  which  are  co-existent,  or  the  parts 
of  which  co-exist,  but  signs  which  are  successive 
can  only  express  objects  which  are  in  succession,  or 
the  parts  of  which  succeed  one  another  in  time- 
Objects  which  co-exist,  or  the  parts  of  which  co- 
exist, are  termed  bodies.  It  follows  that  bodies, 
with  their  visible  properties,  are  the  proper  objects 
of  painting.  Objects  which  succeed,  or  the  parts  of 
which  succeed  to  each  other,  are  called  generally 
actions.  It  follows  that  actions  are  the  proper 
object  of  Poetry. 

But  all  bodies  do  not  exist  only  in  space,  but 
also  in  time.  They  have  continued  duration,  and 
in  every  moment  of  their  duration  may  assume  a 
different  appearance  and  stand  in  a different  rela- 
tion. Each  of  these  momentary  appearances  and 
relations  is  the  effect  of  a preceding,  and  the  cause 
of  a subsequent  action,  and  so  presents  to  us,  as  it 
were,  a centre  of  action.  It  follows  that  Painting 
can  imitate  actions,  but  only  by  way  of  indication, 
and  through  the  means  of  bodies. 

On  the  other  hand,  actions  cannot  subsist  by 
themselves,  but  must  be  dependent  on  certain 
beings.  In  so  far,  now,  as  these  beings  are  bodies, 
or  may  be  regarded  as  such,  poetry  also  paints 


132 


LAOCOON 


bodies,  but  only  by  way  of  indication,  and  through 
the  means  of  actions. 

Painting,  with  regard  to  compositions  in  which 
the  objects  are  co-existent,  can  only  avail  itself  of 
one  moment  of  action,  and  must  therefore  choose 
that  which  is  the  most  pregnant,  and  by  which 
what  has  gone  before  and  what  is  to  follow  will  be 
most  intelligible. 

And  even  thus  Poetry,  in  her  progressive  imita- 
tions, can  only  make  use  of  one  single  property  of 
bodies,  and  must  therefore  choose  that  one  which 
conveys  to  us  the  most  sensible  idea  of  the  form  of 
the  body,  from  that  point  of  view  for  which  it 
employs  it. 

From  this  is  derived  the  rule  of  the  unity  of 
picturesque  epithets,  and  of  frugality  in  the  de- 
scription of  bodily  objects. 

I should  put  little  confidence  in  this  dry  chain  of 
argument  did  I not  find  it  fully  confirmed  by  the 
practice  of  Homer,  or  rather,  I should  say,  if  the 
practice  of  Homer  had  not  introduced  me  to  it. 
Upon  these  principles  only  the  great  manner  of  the 
Greek  can  be  defined  and  explained,  and  the  sentence 
which  it  deserves  be  passed  on  the  directly  opposite 
manner  of  so  many  modern  poets  who  wish  to  rival 
the  painter  in  a performance  in  which  they  must 
necessarily  be  surpassed  by  him.  I find  that  Homer 
paints  nothing  but  progressive  actions,  and  paints 
all  bodies  and  individual  things  only  on  account  of 
their  relation  to  these  actions,  and  generally  with 
a single  trait.  What  wonder  is  it,  then,  that  the 
painter,  where  Homer  has  painted,  finds  little  or 
nothing  for  himself  to  do,  and  that  his  harvest 
is  only  to  be  gathered  where  history  brings  to- 
gether a multitude  of  beautiful  bodies,  in  beauti- 
ful attitudes,  within  a space  favourable  to  art, 
while  the  poet  himself  may  paint  as  little  as  he 
pleases  these  bodies,  these  attitudes,  and  this  space  ? 
Let  any  one  go  through  the  whole  series  of  paint- 
ings, piece  by  piece,  which  Caylus  has  taken  from 


CHAPTER  XYI  133 

him,  and  he  will  find  a confirmation  of  this 
remark. 

Here  I leave  the  Count,  who  would  make  the 
colour-grinding  stone  of  the  painter  the  touchstone 
of  the  poet,  in  order  that  I may  throw  a greater 
light  upon  the  manner  of  Homer. 

I say 1 that  Homer  usually  makes  use  of  one  trait. 
A ship  is  to  him  at  one  time  a dark  ship,  at  another 
a hollow  ship,  at  another  a swfift  ship,  at  the  most 
a well-rowed  black  ship.  He  goes  no  farther  in  the 
painting  of  a ship  but  the  navigation,  the  departure, 
the  arrival  of  the  ship  ; out  of  these  he  makes  a 
detailed  picture,  a picture  out  of  which  the  painter 
must  make  five  or  six  separate  pictures  if  he  wishes 
to  place  it  entirely  upon  his  canvas. 

If  particular  circumstances  compel  Homer  to  fix 
our  attention  for  a longer  time  upon  one  individual 
corporeal  object,  he  nevertheless  produces  no  picture 
which  the  painter  can  imitate  with  his  pencil ; but 
he  knows  how  to  use  numberless  expedients  of  art, 
so  as  to  place  this  single  object  in  a successive 
series  of  moments,  in  each  of  which  it  appears  in  a 
different  form,  and  for  the  last  of  which  the  painter 
is  obliged  to  wait,  in  order  that  he  may  show  us 
completely  formed  that  object,  the  gradual  forma- 
tion of  which  we  have  seen  in  the  poet.  For  ex- 
ample, when  Homer  wishes  to  show  us  the  chariot 
of  Juno,  he  makes  Hebe  put  together  every  piece 
of  it  before  our  eyes.  We  see  the  spokes  and  the 
axletrees,  and  the  driving-seat,  the  pole,  the  traces, 
and  the  straps,  not  brought  together  as  a whole, 
but  as  they  are  separately  put  together  by  the 
hands  of  Hebe.  Upon  the  wheels  alone  the  poet 
lavishes  more  than  one  trait,  and  he  shows  us  the 
eight  brazen  spokes,  the  golden  fellies,  the  tires  of 
bronze,  the  silver  naves — each  individual  separate 
thing.  One  might  almost  say,  that  because  there 
were  more  wheels  than  one,  therefore  he  was 
obliged  to  spend  much  more  time  on  their  descrip- 


134 


LAOCOON 


tion  than  the  putting  on  of  each  particular  part 
would  in  reality  have  required. 

"HjSTj  5’  afjL(f)f  dx^o'cri  6oa>s  /3aAe  KafnrvAa  kvkAci, 
XaAicea,  6icraKP7jjuaf  aidripecp  ol^qvl  a ju(pis. 

Toov  tfroi  xpvff*T)  fovs  &(pOtTos}  avrap  vnepOev 
XctA/ce’  eTriaffcorpa,  Trpoffaprjpora,  dav/aa  idecrOai" 

IT Arj/uLveu  5’  dpyvpov  €l<t\  7r epldpo/uoi  djacporepcodey’ 

A bppos  de  XPv(T*0lffl  KC d apyvpeoicriy  i/uLaffiv 
’Evrerarai'  doiaX  de  Trepldpofioi  dvrvyes  ei&iv. 

Tou  5’  e£  apyvpeos  fiv/xbs  ireAev’  avrap  eir’  tiucpy 
Arjcre  xpucretoi/  xaAbv  £vybv,  ev  de  A enadua 
KaA’ ejSaAe  xpyo-€i’ 2 . . . 

Does  Homer  wish  to  show  us  how  Agamemnon  was 
clad  ? Then  the  king  must  put  on  his  whole  cloth- 
ing piece  by  piece  before  our  eyes — the  soft  under- 
garment, the  great  mantle,  the  beautiful  sandals, 
the  sword — and  then  he  is  ready,  and  grasps  the 
sceptre.  We  see  the  raiment  in  which  the  poet 
paints  the  act  of  his  being  clothed  ; another  would 
have  painted  the  clothes  in  detail  down  to  the 
smallest  fringe,  and  we  shall  have  seen  nothing  of 
the  action  of  putting  on  the  raiment. 

MaA aicbv  d’  evdvve  xLT^vcli 
KaAby,  V7]ya reov’  irepl  de  \xeya  fcaAAero  <papos * 

TlocrcrX  d y bird  Anrapoiaiv  ed^caro  Ka Aa  irediAa. 

’Afupl  d’  ap’  &p.oi(Tiv  /3aA ero  }-t(f>os  apyvpdrjAov, 

E'/Acto  $6  arKTjTTTpoi v tt arpcviov,  dcpOirov  alei  3 

And  as  to  that  sceptre  which  here  is  only  described 
as  ancestral  and  immortal,  as  in  another  place  one 
like  it  is  described  only  as  xPv(Te'LOls  faouri  TrenapiuLevov, 
garnished  with  golden  bosses,  when  I say  we  are  to 
have  a more  complete  and  more  accurate  picture  of 
this  mighty  sceptre,  what  is  it  that  Homer  does'? 
Does  he  paint  for  us,  besides  the  golden  bosses,  the 
wood  of  which  it  is  made,  and  the  carved  head  ? 
Yes,  it  would  have  been  so  in  a description  of 
heraldic  art,  in  order  that  in  future  time  it  might 


CHAPTER  XVI 


135 


be  possible  to  make  one  exactly  like  it.  And  I am 
certain  that  many  a modern  poet  would  have  given 
such  an  heraldic  description,  with  the  simple  and 
honest  notion  that  he  himself  was  really  painting 
because  a painter  could  imitate  him.  But  did 
Homer  trouble  himself  with  considering  how  far  he 
should  leave  the  painter  behind  him  ? Instead  of  a 
description  he  gives  us  the  history  of  the  sceptre  : 
first  we  see  it  as  worked  by  Vulcan  ; next  it  glitters 
in  the  hand  of  Jupiter  ; then  it  proclaims  the  dignity 
of  Mercury  ; then  it  becomes  the  commander-staff 
of  the  warrior  Pelops  ; and  then  it  is  the  pastoral- 
staff  of  the  peaceful  Atreits. 

’XKTiirrpov  r b ''H<pai(TTOS  Ka/j.6  revxtov, 

“E-fpcuffros  pikv  device  A it  Kpcovluvt  avaKri * 

A vrap  a pa  Zeus  decree  diarerSpep  3 Apyei(p6vTr) ’ 

'E p/xeias  de  decree?  IleAoTU  TrArj^Linrcp' 

Avrhp  6 av re  Ile'Ao^  date3  ’Ar pel’,  Xawv’ 

’Arpevs  <5e  Qwr)<nta)V  eAnrev  7ro\dapvi  Quecrr??* 

A vrhp  6 auTe  ©ueuV  ’Ayajuejuvovi  Ae?7re  (popr/vai . 
noAArjcnv  v^eroicrL  real  *'A pye'i  iravrl  avderffeiv  4 

And  thus,  at  last,  I am  better  acquainted  with  this 
sceptre  than  if  a painter  had  placed  it  before  my 
eyes,  or  a second  Vulcan  delivered  it  into  my  hand. 
I should  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  one  of  the 
ancient  expositors  of  Homer  had  admired  this 
passage,  as  containing  the  most  perfect  allegory  of 
the  origin,  the  progress,  the  establishment,  and 
finally  of  the  hereditary  character  of  kingly  author- 
ity among  men.  I should  smile,  indeed,  if  I were 
to  read  that  Vulcan,  who  wrought  the  sceptre, 
represented  fire,  that  thing  which  is  most  indis- 
pensable to  the  support  of  man,  that  relief  of  our 
necessities  which  had  induced  the  first  mortals  to 
subject  themselves  to  the  rule  of  a single  person  ; 
that  the  first  king  was  a son  of  Time  (Zeus  Kpovfav), 
a venerable  old  man,  who  wished  to  share  his  power 
with  an  eloquent  clever  man,  with  a Mercury 
( 5iaKr6pcp  ’A pyei(p6vTTj\  or  entirely  to  give  it  up  to 


136 


LAOCOOIST 


him  ; that  the  wise  orator,  at  a time  when  the 
young  state  was  threatened  by  foreign  foes,  had 
delivered  up  his  supreme  authority  to  the  bravest 
warrior  (neAo7ri  TrXrjVnnrcp)  • that  the  brave  warrior, 
after  he  had  subdued  the  enemy  and  secured  the 
state,  had  found  means  to  transfer  it  to  his  son, 
who,  as  a peace-loving  ruler,  as  a beneficent  pastor 
of  his  people,  had  made  them  acquainted  with  good 
living  and  abundance  (7 roi/iV  a accv\  whereby  he  had 
paved  the  way  after  his  death  for  the  wealthiest  of 
his  relations  ( noAvapvi  ©vearr})  : so  that  what  hitherto 
confidence  had  bestowed  and  merit  had  considered 
rather  as  a burthen  than  a dignity,  should  now  be 
obtained  by  presents  and  bribes,  and  secured  for 
ever  to  the  family,  like  any  other  acquired  property. 
I should  smile,  but  I should  notwithstanding  be 
confirmed  in  my  esteem  for  the  poet  to  whom  so 
much  could  be  attributed. 

But  this  lies  out  of  my  path,  and  I consider  the 
history  of  the  sceptre  merely  as  an  artifice  to  induce 
us  to  contemplate  for  a while  an  individual  thing 
without  introducing  us  to  a frigid  description  of 
its  separate  parts.  Also,  when  Achilles  swears  by 
bis  sceptre  to  avenge  the  contumely  with  which 
Agamemnon  has  treated  him,  Homer  gives  us  the 
history  of  this  sceptre.  We  see  it  green  and  flourish- 
ing on  the  mountain,  the  steel  severs  it  from  the 
trunk,  strips  off  its  leaves  and  bark,  and  makes  it 
a fitting  instrument  to  signify,  in  the  hands  of  the 
judges  of  the  people,  their  divine  dignity. 

Nal  fia  r65e  aKriTrrpov,  rb  juev  ovttotc  (pvWa  Kal  u£ovs 
4>u<rei,  eTreidTi  TTp&ra  iv  opecrffi  AeAonrev, 

Ovd * ava0T}\ 7)<T6i*  tt epl  yap  pa  e xa^K^s  ^AevJ/ei/ 

<£uAA a T6  Kal  <p\oi6v ‘ vvv  avre  puv  vTes  ’Axcu&v 
5Ev  TraXd/bLrjs  (popsovai  biKaaniXoi,  oTre  Be/Luaras 
Upbs  Aibs  elpvarai  5 

It  was  not  so  much  the  object  of  Homer  to  paint 
two  sceptres  of  different  materials  and  forms,  as  to 
make  a clear  and  plain  representation  to  us  of  the 


CHAPTER  XVI 


137 


difference  of  power  of  which  these  sceptres  were 
the  emblems.  The  former,  a work  by  Yulcan  ; the 
latter  cut  on  the  mountain  by  an  unknown  hand  : 
the  former,  the  ancient  possession  of  a noble  house  ; 
the  latter  destined  for  the  strongest  hand  : the 
former  in  the  hand  of  a monarch  stretched  over 
many  islands  and  over  the  whole  of  Argos  ; the 
latter  borne  by  one  chosen  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
Greeks,  to  whom,  with  others,  the  administration 
of  the  laws  was  confided.  This  was  really  the  dis- 
tance at  which  Agamemnon  and  Achilles  stood 
from  each  other  ; a distance  which  Achilles  himself, 
in  spite  of  all  his  blind  wrath,  could  not  do  other- 
wise than  confess. 

But  not  only  on  those  occasions  when  Homer 
combines  with  his  descriptions  of  this  kind  ulterior 
objects,  but  also  when  he  only  desires  to  show  us 
the  picture,  he  will  disperse,  as  it  were,  the  picture 
in  a kind  of  history  of  the  object,  in  order  that  the 
different  parts  of  it,  which  in  nature  we  see  com- 
bined together,  may  in  his  picture  as  naturally 
seem  to  follow  upon  each  other,  and  to  keep  true 
step  with  the  flow  of  his  narrative.  For  example, 
he  wishes  to  paint  for  us  the  bow  of  Pandarus  : a 
bow  of  horn,  of  such-and-such  a length,  well 
polished,  and  tipped  at  both  ends  with  beaten  gold. 
What  does  he  do  ? Does  he  give  us  a dry  enumera- 
tion of  all  its  properties,  one  after  the  other?  No 
such  thing  : that  would  be  to  give  an  account  of  a 
bow,  to  enumerate  its  qualities  ; but  not  to  paint 
one.  He  begins  with  the  chase  of  the  wild  goat, 
out  of  whose  horns  the  bow  is  made.  Pandarus 
had  lain  in  wait  for  him  in  the  rocks,  and  had  slain 
him  : the  horns  were  of  extraordinary  size,  and  on 
that  account  he  destined  them  for  a bow.  They 
are  brought  to  the  workshop  ; the  artist  unites, 
polishes,  decorates  them.  And  so,  as  I have  said, 
we  see  the  gradual  formation  by  the  poet  of  that 
which  we  can  only  see  in  a completed  form  in  the 
work  of  the  painter. 


138 


LAOCOON 


T 6£oi/  iv£oov,  l£a\ov  aiybs 
’Ayplov,  qv  fid  nor’  avrbs , virb  crrpevoio  rvx^cras , 

ITeTprjs  eKfiaivovra  SeBey juevos  4v  TrpodoKrjo'iv, 

Be£ \d)K€i  Trpbs  <rrrj0os * 6 5’  vtttios  ^/xire ere  7re rpy' 

Tov  Kepa  4k  KecfiaXjjs  eKKaibeKddoopa  rr€(f)VK€i’ 

K al  rd  fj.lv  cuTK^cras  K6pao£6os  tfpape  tcktcov, 

Ylav  d 1 €u  Aei^uas,  XPV(T^VV  eneOTjKe  Kopdvrjv  6 

I should  never  have  done  if  I were  to  transcribe 
all  the  instances  of  this  kind.  They  will  occur  in 
multitudes  to  him  who  really  knows  his  Homer. 


CHAPTER  XYII 


But,  it  will  be  "objected,  the  signs  of  Poetry  are 
not  only  successive,  but  they  are  also  arbitrary  ; 
and  as  arbitrary  signs  they  are  certainly  capable 
of  expressing  bodies  as  they  appear  in  space. 

We  find  instances  of  this  in  Homer  himself.  We 
have  only  to  remember  the  shield  of  Achilles,  and 
we  are  supplied  with  the  most  conclusive  example 
how  discursively  and  yet  how  poetically  it  is 
possible  to  paint  a single  thing  in  all  its  co-existing 
parts. 

I will  answer  this  two-fold  objection.  I call  it 
two-fold  because  a right  conclusion  must  avail  even 
without  an  example ; and,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
example  of  Homer  has  weight  with  me,  even  when 
I do  not  know  how  to  justify  it  by  any  argument. 

It  is  true  that,  as  the  signs  of  speech  are  arbi- 
trary, so  it  is  very  possible  that  by  means  of  them 
one  may  cause  the  parts  of  a body  to  follow  in 
succession  as  easily  as  in  nature  they  exist  side  by 
side.  But  this  is  a property  of  speech  and  of  signs 
in  general,  but  not  in  the  relation  which  is  most 
favourable  to  Poetry.  The  poet  wishes  not  only  to 
be  intelligible, — his  representations  ought  not  only 
to  be  clear  and  perspicuous ; with  this  the  prose 
writer  may  be  content.  But  the  poet  desires  to 
make  the  ideas  which  he  awakens  in  us  so  vivid, 
that  from  the  rapidity  with  which  they  arise  we 
believe  ourselves  to  be  really  as  conscious  of  his 
objects  as  if  they  were  actually  presented  to  our 
senses  ; and  in  this  moment  of  illusion  we  cease  to 
be  conscious  of  the  means — that  is,  of  the  words — 
which  he  employs  for  this  purpose.  This  brings  us 
back  to  the  explanation  already  given  of  poetical 
pictures. 

139 


140 


LAOCOON 


But  the  poet  should  always  paint ; and  now  we 
wish  to  see  to  what  extent  bodies  considered  in 
their  co-existing  parts  can  be  the  subject  of  this 
kind  of  painting. 

How  shall  we  attain  to  the  clear  representation 
of  a thing  in  space?  First  let  us  consider  the 
separate  parts  of  it,  then  the  combination  of  these 
parts,  and  lastly  the  whole.  Our  senses  achieve 
these  different  operations  with  so  astounding  a 
speed,  that  they  appear  to  us  to  be  but  one,  and 
this  speed  is  necessarily  indispensable  when  we 
have  to  attain  a conception  of  the  whole,  which  is 
no  more  than  the  result  of  the  conception  of  the 
parts,  and  of  their  combination.  Let  it  be  granted 
that  the  poet  leads  us  in  the  most  perfect  order 
from  one  part  of  the  object  to  another1 ; let  it  be 
granted  that  he  knows  how  to  make  the  combina- 
tion of  the  whole  clear  to  us, — how  long  a time 
does  he  require  for  this  purpose  ? That  which  the 
eye  at  once  surveys  he  enumerates  to  us  with 
marked  slowness  by  degrees,  and  it  often  happens 
that  we  have  forgotten  the  first  when  we  have 
arrived  at  the  last.  Nevertheless,  it  is  out  of  these 
traits  that  we  must  compose  a whole.  To  the  eye 
the  parts  considered  remain  constantly  present,  we 
can  run  over  them  again  and  again  : to  the  ear,  on 
the  contrary,  the  parts,  which  have  been  appre- 
hended, are  lost  if  they  have  not  remained  in  the 
memory  ; and  if  they  do  so  remain,  what  trouble, 
what  striving  does  it  cost  us  to  renew  the  impres- 
sions all  in  the  same  order,  and  as  vividly  as  at 
first,  even  once  to  recall  them  with  moderate 
swiftness,  and  to  attain  to  even  an  approximate 
conception  of  the  whole  ! 

Let  any  one  make  the  experiment  in  an  example 
which  may  be  called  a masterpiece  of  its  kind  : 

There  does  the  noble  Gentian  raise  his  head 
High  o’er  the  lower  troop  of  common  plants, 

Beneath  its  standard  serve  a tribe  of  flowers  ; 

Its  own  blue  brother  bows  and  honours  it. 


CHAPTER  XYII 


141 


While  golden  pyramids  of  brilliant  flowers 
Cling  round  the  stem  and  crown  its  robe  of  green, 

The  leaves  of  brilliant  white,  with  deepest  green, 

Streaked  and  inlaid  throughout,  are  seen  to  glow 
With  the  moist  diamond’s  many-coloured  rays. 

Most  righteous  law  ! uniting  strength  with  graee, 

In  the  fair  body  dwells  the  fairer  soul. 

Here  creeps  a lowly  plant  like  some  grey  mist, 

Its  leaves  by  nature  shaped  as  cruciform  ; 

Two  gilded  beaks  formed  by  the  lovely  flower 
Spring  from  a bird  made  out  of  amethyst. 

Here  a bright  finger-fashioned  leaf  doth  cast 
Its  green  reflection  in  the  limpid  stream. 

The  flower  of  snow,  with  purple  lightly  tinged, 

Environed  by  the  white  rays  of  a star ; 

Emeralds  and  roses  deck  the  trodden  heath, 

And  cliffs  are  covered  with  a purple  robe  2 

Here  are  plants  and  flowers  which  the  learned 
poet  paints  with  great  skill  after  nature.  Paints, 
but  paints  without  producing  any  illusion  3.  I will 
not  say  that  he  who  has  never  seen  these  plants 
and  flowers  cannot  represent  them  at  all  to  himself 
from  this  picture.  It  may  be  that  all  poetical 
pictures  require  a previous  acquaintance  with  their 
objects  ; nor  will  I deny  that  in  him  who  possesses 
such  an  acquaintance  the  poet  may  not  awaken  a 
more  vivid  idea  of  some  of  the  parts  of  the  object. 
I only  ask  how  he  is  affected  with  the  conception 
of  the  whole.  In  order  that  this  conception  should 
be  vivid  no  single  part  of  it  should  be  prominent, 
but  a higher  light  must  be  equally  distributed  over 
all ; our  imagination  must  rapidly  glance  over  all 
alike,  in  order  to  place  at  once  combined  before  us 
that  which  in  nature  would  be  seen  at  once.  Is 
that  the  case  here  h and  if  it  be  not,  how  can  it  be 
said  4 that  the  most  accurate  drawing  of  the  painter- 
must  be  entirely  feeble  and  dim,  when  compared 
with  this  poetical  picture  ? ’ I It  remains,  however, 
infinitely  inferior  to  that  which  lines  and  colours 
could  express  on  canvas,  and  the  critic  who  has 
bestowed  this  exaggerated  praise  must  have  con- 
sidered the  poetry  from  an  entirely  false  point  of 
view ; he  must  have  paid  greater  regard  to  the 
extraneous  ornaments  which  the  poet  has  therein 


142 


LAOCOOIST 


interwoven  in  order  to  exalt  the  vegetable  life,  and 
to  develope  its  inward  perfections,  to  which  out- 
ward beauty  serves  only  as  the  rind, — to  this  he 
must  have  paid  greater  regard  than  to  the  beauty 
itself,  and  to  the  degree  of  vividness  and  resemb- 
lance of  the  picture  which  the  painter  or  the  poet 
could  present  to  us  as  created  from  it.  Here  we 
are  only  concerned  with  the  latter,  and  he  who  can 
say  that  these  lines  alone 

While  golden  pyramids  of  brilliant  flowers 
Cling  round  the  stem  and  crown  its  robe  of  green, 

The  leaves  of  brilliant  white,  with  deepest  green, 

Streaked  and  inlaid  throughout,  are  seen  to  glow 
With  the  moist  diamond’s  many-coloured  rays 

in  respect  to  the  impression  which  they  make,  can 
rival  a picture  by  Van  Huysen,  must  either  not 
have  consulted  his  sensations,  or  have  chosen  de- 
liberately to  contradict  them.  It  may  be  that  a 
man  who  held  a flower  in  his  hand  might  recite 
these  verses  with  great  effect ; but,  taken  by  them- 
selves, they  are  little  or  nothing.  In  these  words 
I hear  the  poet  labouring  at  his  work,  but  I am 
very  far  from  seeing  the  thing  itself. 

Once  again  let  me  say  I do  not  deny  to  language 
generally  the  power  of  painting  a corporeal  whole 
in  its  parts.  It  can  do  so  because  its  signs,  although 
they  are  successive,  are  nevertheless  arbitrary. 
But  I do  deny  that  language  can  use  them  as  a 
means  of  poetry,  because  the  power  of  creating 
illusion  is  wanting  to  these  word-paintings  of 
bodies,  upon  which  power  poetry  principally  de- 
pends. And  this  power  of  creating  illusion,  I 
say,  must  necessarily  be  wanting,  because  the  co- 
existence of  bodies  thereby  comes  into  collision 
with  the  consecutiveness  of  language.  And  because 
the  former  is  dissolved  in  the  latter,  which,  it  is 
true,  facilitates  the  dismemberment  of  the  whole 
into  its  parts,  but  makes  the  final  putting  together 
again,  or  recomposition  of  the  parts  into  a whole, 
an  extremely  difficult  and  often  an  impossible  task. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


143 


In  every  case,  indeed,  where  there  is  no  question 
about  creating  illusion,  where  the  author  has  only 
to  address  the  understanding  of  the  reader,  and 
has  for  his  object  only  to  convey  clear,  and,  as  far 
as  possible,  complete  ideas,  these  may  well  find 
their  place  in  descriptive  paintings  of  bodies,  from 
which  poetry  is  debarred  ; and  not  only  the  prose 
writer,  but  the  dogmatic  5 poet  (for  in  so  far  as  he 
dogmatises  he  is  no  poet)  can  use  them  with  great 
advantage.  Thus,  for  example,  Virgil,  in  his  poem 
of  the  Georgies,  describes  a cow  which  is  a good 
breeder : 

Optima  torvae  6 

Forma  bo  vis,  cui  turpe  caput,  cui  plurima  cervix, 

Et  crurum  tenus  a mento  palearia  pendent ; 

Turn  longo  nullus  lateri  modus  ; omnia  magna  ; 

Pes  etiam,  et  eamuris  hirtae  sub  cornibus  aures. 

Nec  mihi  displiceat  maeulis  insignis  et  albo, 

Aut  juga  detrectans,  interdumque  aspera  cornu, 

Et  faciem  tauro  propior,  quaeque  ardua  tota, 

Et  gradiens  ima  verrit  vestigia  cauda. 

Or  a beautiful  foal  : 

Illi  ardua  cervix  ? 

Argutumque  caput,  brevis  alvus  obesaque  terga, 
Luxuriatque  toris  animosum  pectus  8 

Who  is  there  who  does  not  see  that  the  poet  has. 
been  more  intent  on  a division  and  distinction  of 
the  parts,  than  on  showing  us  the  whole?  He 
desires  to  show  us  the  signs  of  a beautiful  foal,  or 
of  a cow  that  is  a good  breeder,  in  order  that  we 
may  be  in  a condition,  in  the  event  of  our  meeting 
with  few  or  more  of  these  animals,  to  form  a judg- 
ment as  to  the  goodness  of  the  one  or  the  other.. 
Whether  he  has  enabled  us  easily  to  comprehend 
all  these  signs  in  a vivid  picture  or  not  is  a matter 
of  little  importance  to  him  9. 

Except  for  this  purpose,  pictures  in  detail  of 
corporeal  objects,  lacking  the  above-mentioned 
Homeric  artifice  of  changing  what  is  co-existent 
into  what  is  really  successive,  have  in  all  ages  been 
considered  by  the  best  judges  as  pieces  of  frigid 
conceit,  for  which  little  or  rather  no  genius  is. 


144 


LAOCOON 


required.  When  the  scribbler  of  poetry,  says 
Horace,  can  advance  no  further,  he  begins  to  paint 
a grove,  an  altar,  a brook  flowing  through  lovely 
flowers,  a rustling  stream,  a rainbow 

Incus,  et  ara  Dianae ; 

Et  properantis  aquae  per  amoenos  ambitus  agros, 

Aut  fiumen  Rhenum,  aut  pluvius  describitur  arcus  10 

Pope,  when  he  came  to  man’s  estate,  looked  back 
with  contempt  upon  the  attempts  at  the  picturesque 
of  his  poetical  childhood.  He  expressly  laid  it 
down  that  whoever  wished  to  bear  worthily  the 
name  of  a poet,  ought  to  renounce  as  early  as 
possible  the  mania  for  pictorial  description,  and 
declared  that  a poem  purely  descriptive  was  a 
feast  made  of  sauces  alone11.  As  to  Herr  Yon 
Kleist,  I can  say  for  certain  that  he  prided  himself 
very  little  upon  his  Spring.  If  he  had  lived  longer 
he  would  have  given  it  a very  different  form.  He 
contemplated  the  introduction  of  a plan  for  it,  and 
meditated  upon  the  means  of  placing  in  a natural 
and  successive  order  before  his  eyes  the  multitude 
of  images,  which  he  appeared  to  have  snatched  at 
hazard  from  the  infinite  space  of  renewed  creation. 
He  would  at  the  same  time  have  followed  the 
advice  which  Marmontel,  referring  to  his  Eclogues , 
had  profitably  bestowed  upon  several  German 
poets, — he  would  have  converted  a series  of  pictures 
but  scantily  interspersed  with  sentiments,  into  a 
series  of  sentiments  but  scantily  interwoven  with 
pictures 12. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


And  yet  it  is  said  that  Homer  himself  has  been 
guilty  of  these  cold  descriptions  of  corporeal 
objects.  I think  that  there  are  but  very  few 
passages  which  can  be  cited  as  sustaining  this 
allegation  ; and  I am  certain  that  even  these  few 
passages  are  such  that  they  confirm  the  rule  from 
which  they  appear  to  be  exceptions. 

The  principle  remains  : succession  of  time  is  the 
domain  of  the  poet,  as  space  is  the  domain  of  the 
painter.  To  bring  two  periods  of  time,  necessarily 
at  a distance  from  each  other,  into  one  and  the 
same  picture,  as  Francesco  Mazzuoli1  does  the  rape 
of  the  Sabine  maidens,  and  the  reconciliation  of 
their  husbands  with  their  kindred ; or  as  Titian 
does  the  whole  history  of  the  prodigal  son,  his 
libertine  life,  and  his  misery  and  his  repentance2, 
is  an  invasion  by  the  painter  of  the  domain  of  the 
poet,  which  good  taste  condemns. 

To  enumerate  one  by  one  to  the  reader  divers 
parts  or  things  which  in  nature  I can  survey  at  a 
glance  when  they  form  a whole, — to  do  this  in 
order  thereby  to  present  an  image  of  the  whole, 
is  an  invasion  by  the  poet  of  the  domain  of 
the  painter,  whereby  the  poet  squanders  much 
imagination  without  any  profit. 

As  two  equitable  friendly  neighbouring  states  do 
not  indeed  permit  one  to  take  unbecoming  liberties 
in  the  interior  of  the  empire  of  the  other,  but  freely 
allow  a mutual  indulgence  to  prevail  on  their 
extreme  frontiers,  with  respect  to  those  little  in- 
fractions of  the  strict  rights  of  each  other  which 
the  necessity  of  the  moment  and  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances produce,  and  which  admit  of  mutual 
compensation,  so  it  is  with  Painting  and  Poetry. 


146 


LAOCOON 


I will  not  adduce  in  proof  of  this  proposition  the 
fact  that  in  great  historical  paintings  the  single 
moment  is  almost  always  a little  protracted,3  and 
that  perhaps  no  single  picture  very  rich  in  figures 
can  be  found  in  which  each  figure  has  exactly  that 
motion  and  position  which  in  the  moment  of  action 
it  should  have ; one  figure  is  engaged  in  the 
moment  which  precedes,  another  in  the  moment 
which  follows.  This  is  a liberty  which  the  artist 
must  justify  by  certain  refinements  in  his  arrange- 
ment, by  the  turning  away  or  the  removing  to  a 
distance  some  of  his  persons,  so  as  to  allow  them 
to  take  a part,  more  or  less  momentary,  in  the 
action.  I will  content  myself  with  citing  the 
remark  which  Mengs  makes  on  the  drapery4  of 
Baffaello  5 : 

All  the  folds  of  his  draperies  have  a meaning  and  reason, 
whether  derived  from  their  weight  or  from  the  action  of 
the  limb  which  it  covers.  Frequently  you  may  trace  in 
them  the  previous  position  of  the  limb.  Bafiaello  has 
sought  to  give  them  this  meaning.  You  see  by  the  folds 
whether  a leg  or  an  arm,  previously  to  their  present 
action,  has  been  forward  or  backward,  whether  the  limb 
has  passed  from  a contraction  to  an  extension,  or  whether 
it  is  in  the  act  of  passing,  or  whether  it  has  been  extended 
and  is  now  contracted. 

It  is  indisputable  that  in  this  case  the  artist 
brings  together  into  one  two  different  moments. 
For  if  upon  the  foot  which  is  behind,  and  is  moving 
itself  forward,  that  part  of  the  drapery  which  lies 
upon  it  immediately  follows,  unless  the  drapery  be 
made  of  very  stiff  material,  which  on  that  account 
would  be  most  unsuitable  for  painting  : so  there  is 
not  a moment  in  which  the  drapery  forms  in  the 
least  degree  a fold  other  than  the  actual  posture  of 
the  limb  requires ; but  if  another  fold  were  made 
the  drapery  would  be  represented  as  belonging  to 
the  former  moment,  and  the  limb  to  the  present 
moment.  Nevertheless,  who  would  criticize  the 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


147 


artist  severely  who  finds  his  advantage  in  exhibit- 
ing the  two  moments  at  one  and  the  same  time? 
Who  would  not  rather  praise  him  for  having  had 
the  sense  and  the  courage  to  commit  so  slight  a 
fault,  in  order  to  attain  to  a greater  perfection  of 
expression  ? 6. 

The  poet  deserves  the  same  indulgence.  His 
progressive  imitation  allows  him,  to  speak  strictly, 
to  present  only  one  side,  only  one  property,  of  his 
corporeal  objects.  Rut  when  the  happy  organisa- 
tion of  his  speech  enables  him  to  do  this  with  a 
single  word,  why  should  he  not  from  time  to  time 
add  a second  such  word  ? And  why  not,  if  it  be 
worth  the  trouble,  a third  ? or  indeed  a fourth  ? I 
have  said  that  with  Homer,  for  example,  a ship  is 
either  a black  ship,  or  a hollow  ship,  or  a swift  ship, 
or  at  most  a well-rowed  black  ship.  That  is  to  be 
understood  of  his  general  manner.  Here  and  there 
one  finds  a passage  where  he  adds  a third  pictur- 
esque epithet,  KafJL7rv\a  KvK\ax^K€a  OKTaKV'0/j.a,  ‘ round, 
brazen,  eight-spoked  wheels  \ Also  a fourth  : aa-irtSa 
Tvavroa'  1(T7]v,  kclX^v,  xaAebP'  OjfiAarov,  i an  uniformly 
smooth,  beautiful,  brazen,  hammered  shield’.  Who 
blames  him  for  it  ? Who  would  not  rather  thank 
him  for  this  little  excess  when  we  find  what  a good 
effect  it  can  produce  in  a few  suitable  passages  ? 

I do  not  mean,  however,  to  deduce  a strict  justifi- 
cation of  the  poet  or  the  painter  from  the  above- 
mentioned  comparison  of  two  friendly  neighbours. 
A mere  comparison  proves  and  justifies  nothing. 
But  this  observation  must  justify  them.  In  the 
case  of  the  painter,  the  two  different  moments  are 
in  such  near  and  immediate  contact,  that  without 
any  violent  effort  they  might  be  considered  as  one. 
In  the  case  of  the  poet  the  multiplied  traits  which 
describe  the  different  parts  and  properties  in  space 
follow  so  quick  upon  one  another,  so  very  closely, 
that  we  seem  to  hear  them  all  at  once. 

And  herein  I say  Homer  derives  very  uncommon 
aid  from  the  excellence  of  his  language.  It  not 


148 


LAOCOON 


only  allows  him  all  possible  freedom  in  the  accumu- 
lation and  composition  of  epithets,  but  it  also 
allows  these  accumulated  epithets  to  be  placed  in 
so  happy  an  order7  that  there  is  no  disagreeable 
uncertainty  as  to  the  objects  to  which  they  relate. 
Modern  languages,  generally,  are  entirely  devoid  of 
one  or  more  of  these  advantages.  Such,  for  instance, 
is  the  French  language,  which,  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion, is  obliged  to  make  use  of  a circumlocution  to 
express  Kayii7ruAa,  kvkXcl , ^aA/cea  OKraKurj/jLa , as  4 the 
round  wheels  which  are  of  brass,  and  have  eight 
spokes’,  expressing  the  meaning  but  destroying  the 
picture.  But  here  the  sense  is  nothing,  the  picture 
everything ; and  the  former  without  the  latter 
makes  the  most  animated  poet  a dreary  proser,  a 
fate  which  the  good  Homer  has  often  undergone 
under  the  pen  of  the  learned  Madame  Dacier.  Our 
German  language,  on  the  contrary,  can  indeed 
change  the  Homeric  adjectives,  for  the  most  part, 
into  equivalent  and  equally  short  adjectives,  but 
it  cannot  imitate  the  happy  collocation  and  order 
in  which  the  Greek  places  them.  We  say,  indeed, 

4 the  round,  brazen,  eight-spoked  ’ — but 4 the  wheels ’ 
drag  slowly  behind.  Who  does  not  see  that  the 
three  different  predicates  only  convey  a weak 
confused  picture  before  we  know  the  subject  to 
which  they  belong  ? The  Greek  binds  the  subject 
immediately  with  the  first  predicate,  and  allows 
the  others  to  follow.  He  says  : ‘round  wheels, 
brazen,  eight-spoked’.  Thus  we  know  at  once  of 
what  the  poet  is  speaking,  and  are  made  acquainted, 
according  to  the  natural  order  of  thought,  first  with 
the  thing  itself,  then  with  its  accidents.  Our 
language  has  not  this  advantage,  or  shall  I say 
that  it  has  it,  and  can  seldom  make  use  of  it 
without  ambiguity  ? It  is  the  same  thing.  For  if 
we  place  the  adjectives  after  the  substantives  they 
must  stand  in  statu  absoluto ; we  must  say  : 4 round 
wheels,  brazen  and  eight-spoked  ’.  But  in  this  status 
our  adjectives  are  used  adverbially,  and  if  they  are 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


149 


united  as  such  to  the  nearest  verb  which  is  predi- 
cated of  the  subject,  produce  not  seldom  an  entirely 
false,  but  always  a very  ambiguous  sense. 

But  I am  delayed  by  trifles,  and  seem  to  have 
forgotten  the  shield  of  Achilles,  that  famous  picture, 
in  consequence  of  which  more  especially  Homer 
has  from  all  antiquity  been  considered  as  a teacher 
of  painting8.  A shield,  it  will  be  said,  is  surely  an 
individual  corporeal  object,  the  detailed  descrip- 
tion of  the  successive  parts  of  which  cannot  be 
allowed  to  belong  to  the  province  of  the  poet. 
And  yet  Homer  has  described  this  shield  in  more 
than  a hundred  admirable  verses,  as  to  its  material, 
its  form,  and  all  the  figures  which  fill  up  its  enor- 
mous surface,  so  circumstantially  and  so  accurately 
that  modern  artists  have  found  no  difficulty  in 
making  a picture  exactly  resembling  it  in  all  its 
parts. 

I answer  to  this  particular  objection  what  I have 
already  answered.  Homer  does  not  paint  the  shield 
as  perfect  and  already  made,  but  as  a shield  being 
made.  He  has  availed  himself  of  the  much -praised 
artifice  of  changing  that  which  is  co-existent  in  his 
design  into  that  which  is  successive,  and  thereby 
presenting  us  with  the  living  picture  of  an  action 
instead  of  the  wearisome  description  of  a body. 
We  do  not  see  the  shield,  but  the  divine  master  as 
he  works.  There  he  is  with  hammer  and  tongs 
before  his  anvil,  and  after  he  has  wrought  the  plates 
out  of  the  roughest  ore,  the  figures  which  are 
destined  for  its  ornament  rise  up  before  our  eyes, 
one  after  the  other,  as  he  fashions  them  out  of  the 
ore.  We  do  not  lose  sight  of  them  till  all  are 
finished.  Now  they  are  finished,  and  we  stand 
amazed  over  the  work,  but  it  is  with  the  believing 
amazement  of  an  eye-witness  who  has  seen  the 
work  wrought. 

This  cannot  be  said  of  Virgil’s  shield  of  Aeneas. 
The  Roman  poet  was  either  not  susceptible  of  the 
delicacy  of  his  model,  or  the  things  which  he  wished 


150 


LAOCOON 


to  represent  on  his  shield  appeared  to  him  to  be 
such  as  would  not  justify  their  being  executed  in 
detail  before  our  eyes.  They  were  prophecies,  and 
it  would  have  been  unfitting  that  the  god  should 
have  declared  them  in  our  presence  as  clearly  as 
the  poet  afterwards  explains  them  to  us.  Prophe- 
cies, as  prophecies,  require  a darker  speech,  in 
which  the  real  names  of  the  persons  of  the  future 
to  which  they  relate  do  not  occur.  But,  according 
to  all  appearance,  it  was  the  introduction  of  these 
real  names®  that  the  courtier-poet  had  most  at 
heart.  But  if  this  furnishes  an  excuse  for  him,  it 
does  not  take  away  the  evil  effect  which  his  devia- 
tion from  the  Homeric  path  has  caused.  Every 
reader  of  fine  taste  will  admit  this.  The  pre- 
parations which  Vulcan  makes  for  his  work  are 
nearly  the  same  in  Virgil  as  in  Homer.  But  in- 
stead of  our  seeing,  as  in  Homer,  the  preparation 
for  the  work,  we  see  the  work  itself.  Virgil,  after 
he  has  shown  us  the  god  busy  in  a general  way 
with  his  Cyclopes 

Ingentem  clypeum  informant.  * ...  . . 

. . . Alii  ventosis  follibus  auras 
Accipiunt  redduntque ; alii  stridentia  tingunt 
Acra  lacu  ; gemit  impositis  incudibus  antrum, 
llii  inter  sese  multa  vi  brachia  tollunt 
In  numerum,  versautque  tenaci  forcipe  massam  10 

lets  the  curtain  fall,  and  transports  us  into  a very 
different  scene,  whence  he  brings  us  by  degrees 
into  the  valley  in  which  Venus  meets  Aeneas  with 
the  arms  which  had  been  prepared  in  the  interval. 
She  leans  on  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  and  after  the 
hero  had  sufficiently  gazed  at  them,  and  wondered, 
and  handled  and  tried  them,  then  the  description 
begins,  or  the  picture  of  the  shield,  which,  by 
means  of  the  everlasting ‘here  is’,  and  ‘there  is’, 
* near  to  it  stands  ’,  and  ‘ not  far  from  it  is  seen  ’, 
becomes  so  cold  and  wearisome,  that  all  the  poetical 
ornaments  which  even  a Virgil  could  give  are 
needed  to  prevent  our  finding  it  intolerable.  For 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


151 


it  is  not  Aeneas  who  makes  this  picture  ; he  is 
only  delighted  with  the  figures,  and  knows  nothing 
of  their  signification 

rerumque  ignarus  imagine  gandet 

and  not  even  Venus,  although  she  must  be  pre- 
sumed to  know  as  much  as  her  good-natured  hus- 
band about  the  future  fate  of  her  dear  grandson, 
gives  us  the  signification.  But  it  comes  from  the 
mouth  of  the  poet ; and  the  action  remains  in 
obvious  suspense  during  the  narration.  Not  one 
of  his  personages  takes  the  slightest  part  in  it ; 
nor  has  it  the  slightest  effect  upon  the  result, 
whether  this  or  that  thing  is  represented  upon  the 
shield  ; the  clever  courtier  is  visible  throughout, 
who  decks  out  his  subject  with  every  kind  of  flatter- 
ing allusion,  but  the  great  genius  is  not  visible, 
which  relies  upon  the  intrinsic  strength  of  his  work 
and  despises  all  outward  means  of  rendering  it 
interesting.  The  shield  of  Aeneas  is  therefore  a 
real  interpolation,  singly  and  solely  intended  to 
flatter  the  national  pride  of  the  Romans  : a little 
foreign  rivulet  which  the  poet  conducts  into  his 
stream  in  order  to  make  it  more  lively.  The  shield 
of  Achilles,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  natural  pro- 
duce of  its  own  fruitful  soil  ; for  a shield  was  to  be 
made,  and  as  what  is  necessary  does  not  come 
without  grace  from  the  hand  of  a god,  the  shield 
must  have  its  ornaments.  But  the  skill  lies  in 
treating  these  ornaments  only  as  ornaments,  in 
interweaving  them  into  the  main  subject  so  that 
it  furnishes  to  us  the  occasion  of  seeing  them,  and 
that  could  only  be  done  in  the  manner  of  Homer. 
Homer  lets  Vulcan  fashion  the  ornaments  delicately, 
while,  and  at  the  same  time,  he  is  making  the 
shield,  which  is  worthy  of  them.  Virgil,  on  the 
other  hand,  appears  to  have  caused  his  shield  to  be 
made  for  the  sake  of  the  ornaments,  for  he  thinks 
them  of  sufficient  importance  to  deserve  a particular 
description  long  after  the  shield  has  been  made. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


The  objections  which  the  elder  Scaliger1,  Perrault2, 
Terrasson3,  and  others  make  to  the  shield  of  Homer 
are  well  known.  As  well  known  are  the  answers  of 
Dacier4,  Boivin,  and  Pope.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
these  latter  have  gone  much  too  far,  and  in  the 
confidence  of  a good  cause  have  maintained  pro- 
positions which  are  incorrect,  and  contribute  little 
to  the  justification  of  the  poet. 

In  order  to  meet  the  objection  that  Homer  has 
filled  his  shield  with  a multitude  of  figures,  within 
the  circumference  of  which  they  have  scarcely  room 
to  appear,  Boivin  undertakes  to  cause  the  whole  to 
be  drawn,  observing  the  proper  proportions.  His 
idea  of  dividing  the  space  into  various  concentric 
circles  is  very  ingenious,  although  the  words  of  the 
poet  do  not  give  the  least  excuse  for  it ; indeed,  not 
the  slightest  trace  is  to  be  found  that  the  ancients 
had  portioned  out  their  shields  in  this  way.  Homer 
himself  speaks  of  golkos  Travroae  dedaidaA/JLtvov,  of  a 
shield  artfully  finished  on  all  sides.  I should  have 
preferred,  for  the  sake  of  economising  space,  to  have 
invoked  the  concave  surface  of  the  shield,  for  it  is 
known  that  the  ancients  did  not  leave  this  empty, 
as  the  shield  of  Minerva,  wrought  by  Phidias,  tes- 
tifies6. But  it  was  not  enough  for  Boivin  to  refuse 
to  avail  himself  of  this  advantage  ; he  increased 
without  any  necessity  the  pictures  themselves,  for 
which  he  must  find  room  in  the  space  thus  half 
diminished,  while  at  the  same  time  he  divides  into 
two  or  three  pictures  that  which  the  poet  evidently 
intended  for  one  only.  I well  know  what  induced 
him  to  do  this,  but  it  ought  not  to  have  induced 
him  ; for  instead  of  troubling  himself  to  satisfy  the 


CHAPTER  XIX 


153 


demands  of  his  adversaries,  he  ought  to  have  shown 
them  that  their  demands  were  unreasonable.  I will 
make  my  meaning  clearer  by  an  example.  When 
Homer,  speaking  of  a city,  says  6 

A aol  S’  elv  ayopfj  eaav  a Q(r6oi'  ev6a  5e  veiKos 
’npilopei’  8vo  5 ’ avdpes  eveiKeov  eivcKa  ttolvtis 
’Avdpbs  aTTCxpOijicvov’  6 /uev  cvxgto,  tt dvr’  airodovvat, 

Aiyxcp  7 TKpavoKcov'  6 8’  avaivero  fxrjdev  e\ecr6cu‘ 

VA fMpoo  8’  leaOrjv  iir\  tffropi  tt elpap  e\ecr6cu. 

A aol  81  afuporepoicriv  ctt^ttvov,  afMpls  apcayoi * 

K i]pvKCS  8’  apa  A .abv  ip7)TvoV  ol  Se  yepovres 
E 'tar  iirl  ^etTTo'ia’i  A lQols,  Up#  evl  KVKXcp’ 

2 KrjTTTpa  8e  KTjpvK&v  ev  X^P^  *X0V  yepCHptoVcav. 

T oiaiv  €TT6iT  tf'i(rcrov,  a/noifiridls  8e  diKa(ov. 

Kelro  8’  Tup  ev  fjLeacTQUJi  dvco  xpvcroio  raXavra 

I believe  that  he  intended  to  give  a single  picture 
only,  the  picture  of  a public  trial  in  a court  of 
justice  upon  the  contested  payment  of  a consider- 
able fine  due  on  account  of  a homicide.  The  artist 
who  has  proposed  to  himself  this  subject  can  only 
once,  and  no  oftener  make  use  of  a single  moment : 
either  the  moment  of  the  accusation,  or  of  the 
examination  of  the  witnesses,  or  of  the  delivery  of 
the  judgment,  or  of  whatever  moment  he,  before 
or  after,  or  between  these  moments,  considers  most 
suitable.  This  single  moment  he  must  make  as 
pregnant  as  possible,  and  deck  it  out  with  all  the 
illusions  which  his  art  possesses,  and  which  that  of 
the  poet  does  not  possess,  in  the  representation  of 
visible  objects.  But  the  poet,  left  so  far  behind  the 
painter  in  this  respect,  the  poet,  who  has  to  paint 
this  subject  with  words,  and  does  not  choose  to  fail 
entirely,  what  can  he  do  except  in  his  turn  avail 
himself  of  the  peculiar  advantages  of  his  art?  And 
what  are  they  1 The  liberty  of  extending  in  his 
work  of  art  his  description  over  what  has  preceded 
as  well  as  over  what  has  succeeded  to  the  single 
moment  of  the  painter,  and  the  power  of  describing 
not  only  what  the  painter  describes,  but  also  that 


154 


LAOCOON 


which  he  can  only  leave  us  to  conjecture.  It  is  by 
this  liberty  and  this  power  alone  that  the  poet  can 
place  himself  on  a level  with  the  artist,  and  they 
will  then  most  resemble  each  other  where  the  effect 
of  them  is  equally  vivid  ; but  not  on  account  of  the 
greater  or  less  number  of  pictures  which  the  one 
art  addressing  the  soul  through  the  ear,  the  other 
through  the  eye,  may  present  to  it. 

These  are  the  principles  according  to  which  Boivin 
ought  to  have  formed  his  judgment  on  this  passage 
in  Homer  ; and  he  would  not  then  have  made  as 
many  separate  pictures  out  of  it  as  he  thought  he 
remarked  separate  epochs  of  time  in  it.  It  is  true 
that  all  that  Homer  said  in  these  verses  could  not 
be  combined  in  one  picture  : the  accusation,  the 
defence,  the  appearance  of  witnesses,  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  people,  the  striving  of  the  heralds  to 
quiet  the  tumult,  and  the  utterances  of  the  judges, 
are  all  things  which  follow  one  upon  another,  and 
cannot  stand  separately  by  each  other  as  co-exist- 
ing. Though  that  which,  to  use  the  language  of  the 
schools,  was  not  included  in  actu  in  the  picture 
was  in  virtute  therein,  and  the  only  true  method  of 
imitating  by  words  a material  picture,  is  to  combine 
what  is  virtually  implied  with  what  is  actually 
visible,  and  not  to  confine  yourself  to  the  limits  of 
Art,  within  which  the  poet,  it  is  true,  may  enumerate 
data  for  a picture,  but  will  never  produce  a picture 
itself. 

In  the  same  way  Boivin7  divides  the  picture  of 
the  beleaguered  city  into  three  separate  pictures. 
He  might  as  well  have  cut  it  up  into  twelve  as  into 
three.  For  as  he  never  seized  the  spirit  of  the  poet, 
and  as  he  required,  the  poet  to  subject  himself  to 
the  unities  of  material  painting,  he  might  have 
discovered  many  more  oversteppings  of  these 
unities,  till  at  last  it  would  have  been  necessary  to 
allot  a particular  space  on  the  shield  for  each  par- 
ticular trait  of  the  poet.  In  my  opinion  Homer 
has,  generally  speaking,  not  more  than  ten  distinct 


CHAPTER  XIX 


155 


pictures  on  the  whole  shield,  each  of  which  he  intro- 
duces with  a & fiev  erevge,  or  ev  Troi^e,  or  eV  S'  iriOeL, 
or  eV  5e  TToUiWe  'AfKpiyvrj^s8.  Where  these  introductory 
words  do  not  occur  we  have  no  right  to  suppose  a 
separate  picture  ; on  the  other  hand,  all  that  these 
words  enclose  must  be  considered  as  a separate 
picture,  to  which  nothing  is  wanting  save  the 
arbitrary  concentration  on  a particular  epoch  of 
time,  which  the  poet  was  in  no  way  bound  to 
indicate.  Rather  if  he  had  indicated  it,  if  he  had 
holden  vigorously  to  it,  if  he  had  abstained  from 
introducing  the  smallest  trait  which  could  not  have 
been  combined  with  it  in  the  actual  execution  of 
the  picture — in  a word,  if  he  had  done  what  his 
censors  desired  : they,  it  is  true,  would  have  had 
nothing  to  reproach  him  with,  but  in  reality  no 
man  of  taste  would  have  found  anything  to  admire 
in  him. 

Pope  not  only  approves  of  the  division  and  the 
designs  of  Boivin,  but  thinks  that  he  (Pope)  is 
entitled  to  particular  merit  in  pointing  out  that 
each  of  these  sub-divided  pictures  is  indicated  by 
Homer  in  accordance  with  the  strictest  rules  of 
ordinary  modern  painting.  Contrast,  perspective, 
the  three  unities,  all  are  observed  in  the  most  care- 
ful manner  ; and  although  he  well  knew  that  in  the 
opinion  of  trustworthy  witnesses,  painting  at  the 
time  of  the  Trojan  war  was  yet  in  its  cradle,  there- 
fore either  Homer  must  by  virtue  of  his  god-like 
genius  not  have  paid  regard  to  the  paintings  of  an 
earlier  date  or  of  his  own  time,  but  rather  have 
divined  the  future  achievements  of  painting  ; or 
Pope  must  have  thought  that  those  witnesses  them- 
selves were  not  sufficiently  trustworthy  to  outweigh 
the  palpable  evidence  afforded  by  the  language 
which,  so  to  speak,  the  shield  of  the  artist  itself 
expressed.  Let  who  will  adopt  the  first  position, 
the  second  at  least  will  convince  nobody  who  knows 
anything  more  of  the  history  of  the  art  than  the 
mere  data  which  the  chronicler  supplies.  For  such 


156 


LAOCOON 


a person  will  believe  that  Painting  in  Homer’s  time 
was  still  in  its  childhood,  not  only  because  a Pliny 
or  a like  author  says  so,  but  especially  because, 
having  regard  to  the  works  of  art  which  the 
ancients  mention,  he  concludes  that  for  many  hun- 
dred years  after  this  epoch  Painting  had  made  little 
progress.  For  instance,  the  pictures  of  a Poly- 

fnotus  would  not  approach  to  the  test  to  which 
'ope  thinks  the  pictures  of  the  Homeric  shield 
should  be  subjected.  The  two  great  pictures  of  this 
master  at  Delphi,  of  which  Pausanias9  has  left  us 
so  circumstantial  a description,  were  clearly  with- 
out perspective.  This  part  of  the  art  must  be 
altogether  denied  to  the  ancients,  and  the  proofs 
which  Pope  adduces  to  show  that  Homer  possessed 
the  idea  of  perspective  only  prove  that  Pope  himself 
had  a very  imperfect  conception  of  it10. 

That  he  was  not  a stranger  (Pope  says)  to  aerial  per- 
spective appears  in  his  expressly  marking  the  distance  of 
object  from  object.  He  tells  us,  for  instance,  that  the 
two  spies  lay  a little  remote  from  the  other  figures  ; and 
that  the  oak  under  which  was  spread  the  banquet  of 
the  reapers,  stood  apart.  What  he  says  of  the  valley 
sprinkled  all  over  with  cottages  and  flocks,  appears  to  be 
a description  of  a large  country  in  perspective ; and 
indeed  a general  argument  for  this  may  be  drawn  from 
the  number  of  figures  on  the  shield,  which  could  not  be  all 
expressed  in  their  full  magnitude  ; and  this  is  therefore  a 
sort  of  proof  that  the  art  of  lessening  them  according  to 
perspective  was  known  at  that  time.  (Pope,  Works,  v, 
138.) 

Merely  to  observe,  the  law  of  optical  experience 
that  a thing  in  the  distance  appears  smaller  than 
one  close  at  hand  is  far  from  putting  the  picture  in 
perspective.  Perspective  requires  a single  point  of 
sight,  a defined  natural  horizon,  and  this  was  want- 
ing in  the  old  pictures.  The  ground  plan  in  the 
pictures  of  Polygnotus  was  not  horizontal,  but  the 
background  was  so  much  raised  that  the  figures 


CHAPTEB  XIX 


157 


which  ought  to  appear  to  stand  one  behind  another, 
appeared  to  stand  one  above  the  other.  And  if  this 
disposition  of  separate  figures  and  their  groups  was 
general,  as  we  may  conclude  from  the  old  bas-reliefs, 
where  the  hindmost  figures  always  stand  higher 
than  the  foremost,  and  look  over  them  : then  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  the  same  in  the  description  of 
Homer  and  not  unnecessarily  to  separate  those  of 
his  figures,  which  he  allows  to  be  combined  in  one 
picture.  The  double  scene  of  the  city  at  peace 
through  whose  streets  moves  the  joyous  procession 
of  a nuptial  feast,  while  in  the  market-place  an 
important  law  suit  is  being  tried,  does  not  neces- 
sarily require  a double  picture  ; and  Homer  might 
well  consider  it  as  a single  one,  while  he  put  before 
us  the  whole  city  from  so  raised  a point  of  sight, 
that  he  thereby  opened  a clear  view  simultaneously 
both  of  the  streets  and  of  the  market-place. 

I am  of  opinion  that  the  true  perspective  was 
introduced  into  pictures  accidentally,  through  the 
medium  of  scene-painting ; and  although  that  was 
already  in  perfection,  it  could  not  have  been  so  easy 
to  apply  the  rules  of  it  to  a flat  surface,  since  even 
in  the  later  pictures  discovered  in  the  ruins  of 
Herculaneum,  we  find  so  many  and  such  various 
faults  of  perspective  as  we  should  now  hardly 
pardon  in  a beginner11.  But  I spare  myself  the 
trouble  of  collecting  my  scattered  remarks  upon 
this  single  point,  of  which  I am  justified  in  expect- 
ing the  most  complete  treatment  in  the  history  of 
Art,  which  Herr  Winkelmann  has  promised  to 
give  us13. 


CHAPTER  XX 


It  is  better  that  I should  return  to  my  path  : if 
one  who  takes  a walk  for  his  pleasure  can  be  said  to 
have  a path.  What  I have  said  generally  with 
respect  to  corporeal  objects,  is  so  much  the  more 
applicable  to  beautiful  corporeal  obj ects.  Corporeal 
beauty  is  the  result  of  the  harmonious  action  of 
various  parts  which  can  be  taken  in  at  a glance.  It 
requires  therefore  that  these  parts  should  lie  near 
each  other ; and  therefore  things  whose  parts  lie 
near  each  other  are  the  proper  object  of  painting  : 
this  art  and  this  alone  can  imitate  corporeal  beauty. 
The  poet  who  can  only  describe  the  elements  of 
beauty,  one  after  the  other,  abstains  altogether  from 
painting  corporeal  beauty  as  beauty.  He  feels  that 
these  elements  arranged  in  succession  cannot  possibly 
produce  the  effect  which  they  have  when  arranged 
in  juxta-position  or  as  co-existing ; that  the  con- 
centrating glance,  which,  after  their  enumeration, 
we  wish  to  throw  back  upon  them,  in  order  to 
observe  them  all  at  once,  does  not  secure  to  us  an 
harmonious  whole : that  it  passes  the  imagination 
of  man  to  represent  to  himself  what  effect  this 
mouth  and  this  nose  and  these  eyes  taken  together 
produce,  unless  we  can  recollect  a similar  com- 
position of  such  parts  in  nature  or  in  art.  And  here 
also  Homer  is  the  model  of  all  models.  He  says  : 
Niseus  was  beautiful ; Achilles  was  yet  more 
beautiful ; Helen  possessed  a divine  beauty  • but  he 
never  allows  himself  to  enter  into  a more  detailed 
description  of  these  beauties.  Nevertheless  the 
whole  poem  is  built  upon  the  beauty  of  Helen. 
How  greatly  a modern  poet  would  have  luxuriated 
in  the  description  of  it  ! Constantine  Manasses 


CHAPTER  XX 


159 


desired  to  adorn  his  bald  chronicle  with  a picture  of 
Helen  : I must  thank  him  for  the  attempt.  For  I 
really  do  not  think  I could  otherwise  have  found  an 
example  which  so  clearly  demonstrated  how  foolish 
it  is  to  attempt  to  do  that  which  Homer  has  wisely 
left  unattempted.  When  I read  in  him 1 : 

7]  yvvT]  irepiKaW^s,  evocppvs , Evxpovarar7]y 
Evn apeios  evrrp6(rcoTrosf  fio&Ttis,  xi0J/^XPavs > 

* EAiKo/3\€(papos , a/3 pa,  xaPLTC0J/  J&ov  clKgos 
AzVKof$pcLx'i(av  rpvcpepa,  KaXXos  avriKpvs  e/xttvovv, 

Tb  7rp6<JQt)irou  KaraXevKov,  7]  irapeia  f )ob6xpovs} 

Tb  7rp6(TooTrov  iirixapL,  rb  @X4(papov  wpcuov. 

KaWos  av6TTLT7)d6VTov,  afiaTTT icrr ov , avroxpovv, 
vEj8a7TT6  tt]V  XevKOTTjra  pod^xpia  TrvpivT], 

*Qs  e?  t is  rbv  iX 4(pavra  fia-tyei  Xapurpa  tt opcpvpq 
A eip^j  fiaxpa,  KaraXeutcos,  o6ev  e/JLvOovpy^drj 
KvKVioyeuT]  tt]V  evotttov  *EX4vr]V  xp^aT^eij' 

it  seems  to  me  that  I see  stones  rolled  up  a 
mountain,  out  of  which  on  the  top  a superb  build- 
ing is  meant  to  be  erected  ; but  all  of  which  of  their 
own  accord  roll  down  again  upon  the  other  side. 
What  sort  of  image  does  this  pomp  of  words  leave 
upon  our  minds  h What  was  Helen’s  appearance  ? 
If  a thousand  men  were  to  read  the  description, 
would  not  all  the  thousand  form  their  own  separate 
idea  of  it  ? But  it  may  be  said  with  truth  that  the 
versus  politici2  of  a monk  are  not  poetry.  Listen 
then  to  Ariosto  when  he  describes  his  bewitching 
Alcina 3 : 

Di  persona  era  tanto  ben  formata, 

Quanto  me’  finger  san  pittori  industri ; 

Con  bionda  cliioma  lunga  ad  annodata : 

Oro  non  6 che  piu  risplenda  e lustri. 

Spargeasi  per  la  guancia  delicata 
Misto  color  di  rose  e di  ligustri : 

Di  terso  avorio  era  la  fronte  beta, 

Che  lo  spazio  finia  con  giusta  meta. 

Sotto  duo  negri  e sottilissimi  arclii 
Son  duo  negri  occhi,  anzi  duo  chiari  soli, 

Pictosi  a riguardare,  a mover  parclii ; 

Intorno  a cui  par  ch’  Amor  scherzi  e voli, 


160 


LAOCOON 


E ch’  indi  tutta  la  faretra  scarchi, 

E die  visibilmente  i cori  involi  : 

Quindi  il  nas<»  per  mezzo  il  viso  scende, 

Che  non  trova  1’  invidia  ove  1*  emende. 

Sotto  quel  sta,  quasi  fra  due  vallette, 

La  bocca  sparsa  di  natio  cinabro  : 

Quivi  due  filze  son  di  perle  elette, 

Clm  ehiude  ed  apre  un  bello  e dolce  labro  ; 

Quindi  escon  le  cortesi  parolette 
Da  render  molle  ogni  cor  rozzo  e scabro  ; 

Quivi  si  forma  quel  suave  riso 

Ch’  apre  a sua  posta  in  terra  il  paradiso. 

B anca  neve  e il  bel  collo,  e’  1 petto  latte  : 

Il  collo  e tondo,  il  petto  col  mo  e largo. 

Due  pome  acerbe,  e pur  d’  avorio  fatte, 

Vengono  e van  come  onda  al  ptimo  margo 
Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte. 

Non  potria  1’  altre  parte  veder  Argo : 

Ben  si  pub  guidicar  che  corrisponde 
A quel  ch’  appar  di  fuor  quel  che  s’  asconde. 

Mostran  le  braccia  sua  misura  giusta 
E la  Candida  man  spesso  si  vede 
Lunghetta  alquanto  e di  larghezza  angusta, 

D >ve  ne  nodo  appar,  ne  vena  eccede. 

Si  vede  al  fin  della  pt  rsona  augusta, 

Il  breve,  asciutto  e ritondetto  piede. 

Gli  angel:  ci  sembianti  nati  in  cielo 
Non  si  ponuo  eelar  soito  alcun  velo. 

Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  vii,  at.  111-16. 

Milton  says  of  Pandemonium, 

The  work  some  praise, 

And  some  the  architect  4 

The  praise  of  one  is  not  always  the  praise  of  the 
other.  A work  of  art  may  be  deserving  of  all 
praise,  and  yet  may  not  contribute  in  any  special 
manner  to  the  fame  of  the  artist.  On  the  other 
hand,  an  artist  may  justly  lay  claim  to  our  admira- 
tion, when  his  work  does  not  give  us  full  satisfaction. 
This  should  never  be  forgotten,  and  it  will  often 
serve  to  reconcile  entirely  contradictory  judgments. 
As  in  the  following  case.  Dolce,  in  his  dialogue  on 
Painting,  makes  his  Aretino  burst  into  extra- 
ordinary praise  of  the  stanzas5  of  Ariosto,  which 
have  just  been  cited  ; I,  on  the  other  hand,  select 
them  as  an  example  of  a picture  without  a picture. 


CHAPTER  XX 


161 


Both  of  us  are  right.  Dolce  admires  in  them  the 
knowledge  of  corporeal  beauty  which  the  poet 
displays  ; I only  look  to  the  effect  which  this  know- 
ledge, expressed  in  words,  has  upon  my  imagination. 
Dolce  concludes  from  this  knowledge  that  a good 
poet  must  be  an  equally  good  painter  ; and  I judge 
from  the  effect  that  wdiat  the  painter  can  best 
express,  through  the  medium  of  lines  and  colours,  is 
wrorst  expressed  by  words  alone.  Dolce  recommends 
the  description  of  Ariosto  to  all  painters  as  the 
most  perfect  type  of  a beautiful  woman.  And  I 
recommend  it  to  all  poets  as  the  most  instructive 
warning  ; that  what  Ariosto  has  failed  in,  no  person 
with  still  less  chance  of  success  should  attempt.  It 
may  be  that  when  Ariosto  says 

Di  persona  era  tanto  ben  formata, 

Quanto  me’  6 finger  san  pittori  industri, 

that  he  thereby  shows  himself  to  have  as  perfectly 
understood  the  doctrine  of  proportions,  as  the  most 
industrious  artist  who  has  studied  them  in  nature 
and  in  the  ancient  models7.  He  may  have  shown 
himself  by  these  words  alone 

Spargeasi  per  la  guancia  delicata 
Misto  color  di  rose  e di  ligustri 

to  be  a most  perfect  colourist,  a Titian8. 

It  may  be  an  inference  from  the  fact  that  because 
he  has  only  compared  the  hair  of  Alcina  with  gold, 
and  has  not  called  the  hair  golden,  that  he  dis- 
approved of  the  use  of  actual  gold  in  the  mixing  of 
colours.9  It  may  be  possible  that  in  her  straight 
nose 

Quindi  il  naso  per  mezzo  il  viso  scende 

is  to  be  found  the  profile  of  that  ancient  type  of 
nose  of  the  Greek  artists  which  the  Romans 
borrowed10.  But  how  does  all  this  erudition  and 
knowledge  profit  us  readers,  who  wish  to  imagine 
they  see  a beautiful  woman,  who  wish  to  feel  in 
some  degree  that  gentle  agitation  of  the  blood 
which  accompanies  the  actual  sight  of  beauty  ? 

M 


162 


LAOCOON 


If  the  poet  knows  of  wdiat  proportions  a beautiful 
form  is  composed,  does  that  make  us  know  it  also  ? 
And,  if  we  do  also  know  it,  does  he  make  us  see 
these  proportions  ? Or  does  he  in  the  least  facili- 
tate the  effort  of  imagination  to  recall  them  clearly 
and  vividly  before  us  ? A forehead  enclosed  within 
proper  limits, 

La  fronte 

Che  lo  spazio  finia  con  giusta  meta 

a nose  than  which  envy  could  find  nothing  better, 

Che  non  trova  1’  invidia  ove  1*  emende 
a hand  somewhat  long  and  narrow, 

Lunghetta  alquanto,  e di  larghezza  angusta. 

What  sort  of  image  do  these  common  places 
suggest?  There  might  be  something  to  say  for 
them  in  the  mouth  of  a drawing  master,  who 
wishes  to  direct  the  attention  of  his  pupils  to  the 
beauties  of  an  academic  model ; for  with  a glance 
at  this  model  they  see  the  proper  limits  of  a serene 
forehead,  the  beautifully  cut  nostril  and  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  delicate  hand.  But  in  the  poet  I see 
nothing,  and  I feel  with  disgust  the  failure  of  my 
best  efforts  to  see  something. 

In  this  point  in  which  Virgil  by  his  abstinence 
has  imitated  Homer,  he  has  been  tolerably  success- 
ful. Even  his  Dido  is  nothing  more  than  pulcherrima 
Dido.  When  he  describes  her  more  in  detail  it  is 
by  her  rich  dress,  her  sumptuous  attire  : 

Tandem  progreditur  . . . 

Sidoniam  picto  ( hlamydem  circumdata  limbo  ; 

Cu  pharetra  ex  auro,  crines  nodantur  in  an  rum, 

Aurea  purpuream  subnectit  fibula  vestem  11 

And  if  an  attempt  should  be  made  to  apply  to  him 
what  the  ancient  artist  said  to  a scholar  who  had 
painted  a richly  attired  Helen  : ‘ It  is  because  you 
could  not  paint  her  beautiful  that  you  have  painted 
her  rich  * ; then  Virgil  would  reply,  4 It  is  not  my 
fault  that  I have  not  been  able  to  paint  her  beauti- 


CHAPTER  XX 


163 


ful : the  blame  is  due  to  the  limits  of  my  art : it  is 
my  praise  to  have  kept  myself  within  these  limits’. 

Here  I must  not  forget  the  two  odes  of  Anacreon* 
in  which  he  analyses  the  beauty  of  his  maiden  and 
her  Bathyllus 12.  The  turn  which  he  gives  it  carries 
it  off.  He  imagines  that  he  has  a painter  before 
him  and  causes  him  to  work  under  his  eyes.  4 Make 
me  ’ says  he,  4 in  this  way  the  hair,  in  this  way  the 
forehead,  in  this  way  the  eyes,  in  this  way  the 
mouth,  in  this  way  the  neck  and  bosom,  in  this  way 
the  hips  and  the  hands  ! ’ In  this  way  what  the 
artist  can  only  put  together  part  by  part,  the  poet  can 
only  part  by  part  direct  him  to  do.  His  intention 
is  not,  that,  in  this  oral  direction  to  the  painter,  we 
should  know  and  feel  the  full  beauty  of  the  beloved 
object.  He  himself  feels  the  insufficiency  of  ex- 
pression by  words,  and  therefore  has  recourse  to 
the  expression  by  art,  the  illusions  of  which  he  so 
magnifies,  that  the  ode  appears  to  be  more  a song 
of  praise  upon  the  art  than  upon  his  mistress.  It 
is  not  her  portrait  but  herself  which  he  sees,  and 
fancies  that  she  is  going  to  open  her  mouth  to 
speak  to  him  : 

’ATre^er  j8Ae7ra>  yap  avr^v. 

Tctxa>  icy pe,  koX  \a\r](rets. 

So  in  the  portrait  of  Bathyllus  the  praise  of  the 
beautiful  youth  is  so  interwoven  with  the  praise  of 
the  art  and  the  artist,  that  it  is  doubtful  to  the 
honour  of  which  Anacreon  has  destined  his  ode. 
He  collects  the  most  beautiful  parts  from  various 
pictures,  of  which  the  principal  characteristic  was 
the  especial  beauty  of  these  parts.  He  takes  the 
neck  from  an  Adonis,  the  breast  and  hands  from  a 
Mercury,  the  hips  from  a Pollux,  the  belly  from  a 
Bacchus  ; until  he  sees  the  entire  Bathyllus  in  an 
Apollo  perfectly  finished  by  the  painter. 

Me<ra  dh  Trp6(TWTrov  tcrrai, 

Thu  ’AScovlSus  Trap*A6cbv, 

’EAetyuvrivos  rpaxyAos' 


164 


LAOCOON 


Mera/Jia^iov  de  Tro'iei 
Ai dvjuas  r e %€?pay  * Ep/iov , 

TloAvBevKeos  Be  /xrjpovs 
Alovvgiov  de  vrjBvv 
Tov  iAir6AAcova  Be  rovrov 
KaOeAkv,  Troiei  BaOvAAov. 

In  the  same  way  Lucian  can  give  us  no  other 
idea  of  the  beauty  of  Panthea  than  by  referring  us 
to  the  most  beautiful  female  statues  of  the  ancient 
artists15.  But  what  is  this  but  to  confess  that  lam 
guage  for  this  purpose  is  powerless ; that  poetry 
stammers  and  eloquence  is  dumb,  unless  art  in 
some  measure  assist  them  as  an  interpreter  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI 


But  does  not  poetry  suffer  too  great  a loss  if  we 
take  away  from  her  all  images  of  corporeal  beauty  ? 
Who  wishes  to  take  them  away  % If  we  seek  to 
prevent  her  pursuing  a particular  path,  by  which 
she  expects  to  arrive  at  such  images,  while  she 
follows  the  footsteps  of  a sister  art,  but  in  which 
she  painfully  wanders  up  and  down  without  ever 
reaching  the  same  goal : do  we  therefore  close  every 
other  path  to  her,  even  those  in  which  Art  in  her 
turn  must  follow  her  a great  distance  'i 

Even  Homer,  who  so  carefully  abstains  from 
all  detailed  description  of  corporeal  beauty,  from 
whom  we  barely  learn,  even  parenthetically,  that 
Helen  has  white  arms1  and  beautiful  hair2,  even 
this  poet  knows  nevertheless  how  to  give  us  an  idea 
of  her  beauty,  which  far  surpasses  all  that  art  is 
capable  of  representing  to  us. 

Let  us  only  remember  the  passage  in  which  Helen 
appears  before  the  Council  of  the  Trojan  Elders. 
The  venerable  old  men  gaze  on  her,  and  one  says  to 
the  other : 

Ov  ve/uearis  Tpuas  kcu  €uKV7)/juSas  * Axaiovs 
Toils’  afxcpX  ywaifcl  ttoAvu  xp°vov  &Ayea  tt acrxeW 
A Ivcos  ctOavixTriai  0erjs  els  <*>7ra  toiKev  3 

What  can  convey  to  us  a more  lively  idea  of  beauty 
than  that  cold  old  age  should  think  it  justified  the 
woe  which  had  cost  so  much  blood  and  so  many 
tears  ? 4. 

What  Homer  could  not  describe  in  detail  he 
makes  us  understand  by  the  effect : oh  ! poets, 
paint  for  us  the  pleasure,  inclination,  love,  rapture, 
which  beauty  causes,  and  you  will  have  painted 

165 


166 


LAOCOON 


beauty  itself.  Who  can  think  that  the  beloved 
object  of  Sappho,  at  the  sight  of  whom  she  confesses 
to  have  lost  sense  and  judgment,  was  ugly?  Who 
does  not  believe  that  he  has  seen  the  most  beautiful 
and  perfect  form  the  moment  he  sympathises  with 
the  emotions  which  only  such  a form  can  awaken  ? 

It  is  not  because  Ovid  describes  the  different 
parts  of  the  beautiful  body  of  his  Lesbia,  in  the 
lines, 

Quos  humeros,  quales  vidi  tetigique  lacertos  ! 

Forma  papillarum  quam  fuit  apta  premi ! 

Quam  castigato  planus  sub  pectore  venter  ! 

Quantum  et  quale  latus  ! quam  juvenile  femur  ! 

but  it  is  because  he  describes  them  with  that  inebri- 
ating voluptuousness  which  so  readily  awakens  our 
desires,  that  we  imagine  ourselves  to  enjoy  the 
siglit  which  he  enjoyed. 

Another  way  by  which  poetry  attains  the  end  of 
painting  in  the  description  of  corporeal  beauty,  is 
by  changing  beauty  into  grace.  Grace  is  beauty 
in5  motion,  and  therefore  less  within  the  province 
of  the  painter  than  the  poet.  The  painter  can  only 
create  a presumption  of  motion,  in  reality  however 
his  figures  are  without  motion.  Consequently  grace 
with  him  borders  on  grimace.  But  in  poetry  it 
remains  what  it  is  : a transitory  beauty  which  we 
wish  to  see  repeated.  It  comes  and  goes  : and  as 
we  can  generally  more  easily  and  more  vividly 
remember  a motion  than  a mere  form  or  colour  : it 
follows  that  grace  in  the  same  proportions  will 
produce  a stronger  impression  upon  us  than  beauty. 
All  that  in  the  picture  of  Alcina  pleases  and  excites 
us  is  grace.  The  impression  which  her  eyes  make 
is  not  in  consequence  of  their  being  black  and  fiery, 
but  because  they  are 

Pietosi  a riguardar,  a mover  parchi 

have  a look  of  sweetness  and  languor : that  love 
flutters  round  them  and  discharges  his  whole  quiver 
from  them.  Her  mouth  charms  us  not  because  her 


CHAPTER  XXI 


167 


vermilion  lips  disclose  two  rows  of  choice  pearl : 
but  because  they  form  that  love-inspiring  smile 
which  of  itself  opens  paradise  upon  earth  : because 
from  them  come  those  friendly  words  which  soften 
the  roughest  heart.  Her  bosom  enchants  us  less 
because  milk  and  ivory  and  apples  are  the  image  of 
their  whiteness  and  exquisite  form — but  rather 
because  we  see  them  gently  undulate  like  the 
waves  on  the  extremest  edge  of  the  shore  when  a 
playful  zephyr  agitates  the  sea. 

Due  pome  acerbe,  e pur  d’  avorio  fatte, 

Veugono  e van,  come  onda  al  primo  margo 
Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte. 

I am  certain  that  such  traits  of  grace  compressed 
into  one  or  two  stanzas  would  have  produced  more 
effect  than  the  five  others,  over  which  Ariosto  has 
scattered  them,  interweaving  with  them  cold  indi- 
cations of  a beautiful  form,  in  a manner  far  too 
learned  to  affect  our  feelings. 

Anacreon  himself  preferred  to  err  by  an  obvious 
impropriety,  in  requiring  an  impossibility  from  the 
painter,  rather  than  not  animate  with  grace  the 
image  of  his  mistress. 

T pvQepov  8’  icrca  yeueiov, 

ITepl  Avydivcp  rpaX'fl^V 
Xapires  ireroiVTO  Truffai. 

4 Let  all  the  graces  hover  over  her  soft  chin  and 
her  marble  neck  J.  How  did  he  intend  this  ? in  the 
most  literal  meaning  ? It  was  incapable  of  execu- 
tion by  the  painter.  The  painter  could  give  the 
chin  its  finest  round — its  most  beautiful  dimple 
amoris  digitulo  impressum  (for  the  appears  to  me 
to  indicate  a dimple),  he  could  give  the  most  beau- 
tiful carnation  to  the  neck  : but  he  could  go  no 
further.  The  movement  of  this  beautiful  neck,  the 
play  of  the  muscles,  by  which  the  dimple  became 
more  or  less  visible,  the  special  grace  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  power.  The  poet  used  the  most 


168 


LAOCOON 


forcible  expressions  of  his  art  to  make  beauty- 
visible  to  us,  in  order  that  the  painter  might  make 
use  of  the  most  forcible  expression  of  his  art.  A 
new  illustration  of  our  former  remark  that  the  poet, 
even  when  he  speaks  of  works  of  Art,  is  not  on  that 
account  obliged  to  confine  himself  within  the 
boundaries  of  Art. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


Zeuxis1  painted  a Helen,  and  had  the  courage  to 
write  underneath  it  the  famous  lines  of  Homer,  in 
which  the  enraptured  old  men  confess  their  emo- 
tion. Never  have  Painting  and  Poetry  been  in  such 
equal  competition.  The  victory  remains  undecided, 
both  deserve  to  be  crowned. 

For  as  the  wise  poet  shows  only  in  its  effect  that 
beauty  which  he  felt  himself  unable  to  paint  in 
detail ; so  does  the  not  less  wise  painter  show  us 
beauty  only  by  its  details,  and  holds  it  unbecoming 
his  art  to  have  recourse  to  any  other  expedient. 
His  picture  consists  only  of  the  single  figure  of 
Helen,  which  was  naked.  For  it  is  probable  that 
this  was  the  Helen  which  he  painted  for  Crotona2. 

Let  us,  for  the  sake  of  the  curiosity  of  the  fact, 
compare  with  this  picture  that  which  Caylus  pre- 
scribes to  young  painters,  founding  his  advice  on 
these  lines  of  Homer 

Helen,  covered  with  a white  veil,  appears  in  the  midst 
of  several  old  men,  among  whom  is  Priam  distinguished 
by  marks  of  royal  dignity.  The  artist  must  take  especial 
pains  to  make  apparent  the  triumph  of  beauty  in  the 
greedy  3 looks  and  in  all  the  outward  expressions  of  be- 
wildered astonishment  upon  the  faces  of  these  frigid  old 
men.  The  scene  is  above  one  of  the  gates  of  the  city. 
The  background  is  lost,  either  in  the  open  sky  or  against 
the  loftier  buildings  of  the  city  : the  former  is  the  bolder 
achievement,  but  one  is  as  suitable  as  the  other. 

Let  us  suppose  that  this  picture  was  executed  by 
the  greatest  painter  of  our  time,  and  put  in  compe- 
tition with  the  work  of  Zeuxis.  Which  would  indi- 
cate the  real  triumph  of  beauty  ? The  latter  which 

169 


170 


LAOCOON 


I feel  myself  ? or  the  former  in  which  I am  to  extract 
it  from  the  grimaces  of  the  excited  greybeards'? 
turpe  senilis  amor — a greedy  look  makes  the  most 
honoured  face  ridiculous,  and  a greybeard  who 
manifests  the  desires  of  youth  is  so  far  an  object  of 
disgust.  The  Homeric  old  men  are  not  liable  to 
this  reproach  : for  the  emotion  which  they  feel  is  a 
momentary  spark  which  their  wisdom  immediately 
stifles.  It  suffices  to  do  honour  to  Helen  without 
disgracing  them.  They  avow  their  feeling  and 
immediately  add 

*AAAct  kol\  &s,  rolrj  tt ep  (ov<t%  iu  wqvcrl  vsiaQ&y 

M r]5’  rj/xiv  T6Kee(T<rl  r*  diriarcroo  tt rj/jLa  Xittolto  4 

Without  this  resolution  they  wrould  be  old  fools  : 
they  would  be  what  they  must  appear  to  be  in  the 
picture  of  Caylus.  And  what  is  the  object  upon 
which  they  direct  their  greedy  looks  ? 6.  Upon  a 
disguised  veiled  figure.  Is  that  Helen  ? It  is  to  me 
inconceivable  how  Caylus  could  leave  her  the  veil. 
It  is  true  that  Homer  expressly  gives  it  to  her 

Avtikcl  5’  apyevvri(Ti  Ka^vxf/ajuePT]  bQbvycnv 

*Q,piAa.T  €K  QaKafxoio • 

but  in  order  that  she  may  pass  through  the  streets  : 
and  even  if  Homer  had  described  the  wonderment 
of  the  old  men  before  she  had  lifted  up  or  taken  off 
her  veil,  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  they  had  seen 
her  : their  avowal  therefore  did  not  necessarily  arise 
from  their  momentary  glimpse  at  this  time,  but 
they  might  often  have  felt  what  they  then,  for  the 
first  time,  confessed  they  felt.  This  could  find  no 
place  in  the  pictures.  If  in  it  I see  enraptured  old 
men,  I see  also  the  cause  of  their  rapture : and  I 
am  greatly  surprised  to  see,  as  I have  said,  no  moi  e 
than  a disguised  veiled  figure  on  which  they  had 
fixed  their  passionate  gaze.  What  is  there  of  Helen 
in  this  ? Her  wffiite  veil  and  something  of  the  out- 
line of  her  fair  proportions,  so  far  as  they  could  be 


CHAPTER  XXII 


171 


visible,  through  the  folds  of  the  garment.  Perhaps, 
however,  it  was  not  the  intention  of  the  Count  that 
her  face  should  be  covered,  and  he  speaks  of  the  veil 
merely  as  a portion  of  her  attire.  If  this  be  so  (his 
language  is  scarcely  capable  of  such  a construction, 
Helene  couverte  d’un  voile  blanc)  then  I have  a new 
subject  for  my  astonishment : he  gives  the  artists 
most  careful  instructions  as  to  the  expression  upon 
the  faces  of  the  Elders  : and  says  not  a word  on 
the  beauty  of  the  face  of  Helen.  That  modest 
beauty,  that  eye  moist  and  glittering  with  the  tear 
of  repentance,  as  she  draws  near  with  fear.  How 
is  this  ? Is  the  highest  beauty  so  familiar  to  our 
artists  that  they  do  not  need  to  be  at  all  reminded 
of  it  h or  is  expression  more  than  beauty  ? And  are 
we  accustomed  to  see  in  pictures,  as  on  the  stage, 
the  ugliest  actress  play  the  part  of  an  enchanting 
princess  if  her  prince  only  expresses  a sufficiently 
warm  love  for  her? 

In  truth  : the  picture  of  Caylus  bears  the  same 
relation  to  the  picture  of  Zeuxis  that  pantomime 
bears  to  the  most  sublime  poetry. 

Homer  was  certainly  more  diligently  read  in 
ancient  times  than  he  now  is6.  Nevertheless  we  do 
not  find  a great  many  pictures  mentioned,  which 
the  ancient  painters  took  from  him7.  What  they 
appear  to  have  most  industriously  availed  them- 
selves of,  were  the  indications  which  the  poet  gives 
of  certain  peculiarities  of  corporeal  beauty  ; these 
they  painted  and  were  well  convinced,  that,  with 
regard  to  these  objects  alone,  it  was  permitted  to 
them  to  compete  with  Homer.  Besides  Helen, 
Zeuxis  painted  also  Penelope  ; and  the  Diana  of 
Apelles  was  the  Homeric  Diana,  accompanied  by 
her  nymphs.  I will  take  this  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving that  the  passage  in  Pliny  which  describes 
the  latter,  requires  correction8.  But  it  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  agreeable  to  the  taste  of  the 
old  artists  to  paint  actions  taken  from  Homer — 
merely  because  they  furnished  rich  composition, 


172 


LAOCOON 


advantageous  contrasts,  and  happy  effects  of  light, 
and  this  could  not  have  been  agreeable  to  their 
taste  so  long  at  least  as  art  confined  itself  within 
the  narrow  limits  which  its  highest  end  required. 
They  nourished  themselves  by  way  of  compensation 
on  the  spirit  of  the  poet  ; they  filled  their  imagina- 
tion with  his  most  sublime  traits ; the  fire  of  his 
enthusiasm  inflamed  theirs  ; they  saw  and  felt  as 
he  did  : and  so  their  works  became  copies  of  the 
Homeric  poem,  not  in  the  relation  of  a portrait  to 
the  original,  but  in  the  relation  of  a son  to  a father  ; 
resembling,  yet  different.  The  resemblance  often 
lies  in  a single  trait ; all  the  other  features  have 
nothing  in  common  between  them  but  a general 
harmony  with  the  resembling  feature  as  well  as  with 
the  others. 

It  remains  to  observe,  that  all  the  masterpieces  of 
Homer  were  older  than  any  masterpiece  of  art ; for 
Homer  had  looked  at  nature  with  the  eye  of  a 
painter,  long  before  Phidias  or  Apelles.  So  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  these  artists  found  many 
very  valuable  observations,  before  they  had  time  to 
make  them  for  themselves  in  nature,  made  by 
Homer,  where  they  eagerly  seized  upon  them,  in 
order  through  Homer  to  imitate  nature.  Phidias 
confessed  that  the  lines 9 

’H,  nal  Kvaveyaiv  ii r’  6(ppv(ri  vevtre  Kpouicvu’ 

3A/j. fip6(TLCu  8’  &pa  xcutcu  Gireppaxravro  clvclktos 

Kparbs  a7r’  aOavaToio'  pityav  d’  ^OAv/nrov’ 

furnished  him  with  the  type  of  his  Olympian 
Jupiter,  and  that  it  was  only  through  his  assistance 
he  attained  to  the  god-like  countenance  propemodum 
ex  ipso  caelo  petitum. 

Whoever  thinks  that  in  this  language  no  more  is 
said,  than  that  the  fancy  of  the  artist  was  kindled 
by  the  sublime  image  of  the  poet,  and  so  rendered 
capable  of  a more  sublime  representation,  appears 
to  me  to  overlook  what  is  most  essential,  and  to 


CHAPTER  XXII 


173 


content  himself  with  a very  general  explanation, 
when  greater  research  would  have  furnished  him 
with  one  much  more  satisfactory,  and  resting  on 
much  broader  foundations.  As  far  as  my  opinion 
goes,  Phidias  at  the  same  time  confessed  that  he 
had  in  this  passage  first  remarked  how  much  ex- 
pression lies  in  the  eyebrows,  quanta  pars  animi  10 
shows  itself  in  them.  Perhaps  that  it  first  induced 
him  to  bestow  greater  care  and  labour  upon  the 
hair,  in  order  in  some  measure  to  express  what 
Homer  calls  Ambrosian  hair.  For  it  is  certain  that 
the  ancient  artists,  before  the  time  of  Phidias,  little 
understood  the  language  and  the  significance  of 
physiognomy  and  especially  had  greatly  neglected 
the  hair.  Even  Myron  was  censurable  on  both 
these  points,  as  Pliny  remarks  11  ; and  even  after 
his  time  Pythagoras  Leontinus  was  the  first  who 
distinguished  himself  by  his  delicate  sculpture  of 
hair 12 : What  Phidias  learnt  from  Homer  the  other 
artists  learnt  from  the  works  of  Phidias. 

I will  produce  an  example  of  this  kind  which  has 
always  been  very  satisfactory  to  me.  Let  us  re- 
member what  Hogarth  has  said  about  the  Belvidere 
Apollo 13 : ‘ These  two  masterpieces  of  Art  are  seen 
together  in  the  same  palace  at  Home,  where  the 
Antinous  fills  the  spectator  with  admiration  only, 
whilst  the  Apollo  strikes  him  with  surprise,  and,  as 
travellers  express  themselves  with  an  appearance 
of  something  more  than  human;  which  they  of 
course  are  always  at  a loss  to  describe  : and  this 
effect,  they  say,  is  the  more  astonishing,  as  upon 
examination  its  disproportion  is  evident  even  unto 
a common  eye.  One  of  the  best  sculptors  we  have 
in  England,  who  lately  went  to  see  them,  confirmed 
to  me  what  has  been  now  said,  particularly  as  to 
the  legs  and  thighs  being  too  long,  and  too  large  for 
the  upper  parts.  And  Andrea  Saechi,  one  of  the 
great  Italian  painters,  seems  to  have  been  of  the 
same  opinion,  or  he  would  hardly  have  given  his 
Apollo,  crowning  Pasquilini  the  musician,  the  exact 


174 


LAOCOON 


proportion  of  the  Antinous  (in  a famous  picture 
now  in  England),  as  otherwise  it  seems  to  be  a 
direct  copy  from  the  Apollo’.  He  adds — 

Although  in  very  great  works  we  often  see  an  inferior 
part  neglected,  yet  here  it  cannot  be  the  case,  because 
in  a fine  statue,  just  proportion  is  one  of  its  essential 
beauties  : therefore  it  stands  to  reason  that  these  limbs 
must  have  been  lengthened  on  purpose,  otherwise  it  might 
easily  have  been  avoided. 

So  that  if  we  examine  the  beauties  of  this  figure 
thoroughly,  we  may  reasonably  conclude  that  what  has 
been  hitherto  thought  so  unaccountably  excellent  in  its 
general  appearance,  hath  been  owing  to  what  hath  seemed 
a blemish  in  a part  of  it. 

All  this  is  very  instructive  ; and  even  Homer,  X 
may  add,  had  discovered  and  pointed  out  that  there 
is  a dignity  in  figures  which  arises  merely  from  this 
addition  to  stature  in  the  elongation  of  the  foot  and 
leg.  For  when  Antenor  wishes  to  compare  the 
appearance  of  Ulysses  with  the  appearance  of 
Menelaus,  he  says14 

^rav t(i)V  jmev  Me^eAaos  vi relpex^  evpeas  Ionovs, 

'AiLMpw  d’  €(o/jL6PCt),  yepapcorepos  ’Odvacevs. 

When  both  stood,  Menelaus  towered  above  by  his 
broad  shoulders  : but  when  both  sat  Ulysses  had 
the  most  imposing  appearance. 

Ulysses  gained  in  dignity  from  sitting,  and 
Menelaus  lost  it  from  the  same  posture  ; it  is  easy 
to  determine  the  relation  which  the  upper  part  of 
the  body  in  each  bore  to  the  lower  part.  Ulysses 
had  somewhat  an  exaggeration  of  size  in  the  former, 
Menelaus  in  the  latter. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


One  single  unbecoming  part  may  disturb  the  har- 
monious effect  of  many  others  in  the  production  of 
beauty  ; nevertheless  the  object  will  not  on  that 
account  alone  be  ugly.  Even  ugliness  requires  many 
disagreeable  parts,  all  of  which  we  must  perceive  at 
the  same  time,  in  order  to  make  us  feel  the  sensation 
opposite  to  that  which  beauty  makes  us  feel. 

Ugliness,  therefore,  considered  in  itself,  cannot  be 
the  object  of  poetry  ; and  nevertheless  Homer  has 
painted  the  extreme  of  ugliness  in  his  Thersites,  and 
has  painted  it  by  describing  all  the  co-existent  parts 
of  it.  Why  did  he  permit  himself  to  do  that  with 
respect  to  ugliness  which  he  so  wisely  refrained  from 
doing  with  respect  to  beauty  ? Is  not  the  effect  of 
ugliness  as  much  hindered  by  the  detailed  enumera- 
tion of  its  elements,  as  the  effect  of  beauty  is 
destroyed  by  the  like  enumeration  of  its  elements  ? 

Undoubtedly  it  is  ; but  herein  lies  the  justification 
of  Homer.  It  is  precisely  because  ugliness  by  this 
painting  of  the  poet  is  reduced  to  a less  disgusting 
appearance  of  corporeal  imperfection,  and,  so  to 
speak,  with  respect  to  its  result,  ceases  to  be  ugliness, 
that  the  poet  is  enabled  to  make  use  of  it ; and  what 
he  is  unable  to  use  for  itself,  he  uses  as  an  ingredient, 
in  order  to  produce  and  to  strengthen  in  us  certain 
mixed  sensations,  with  which  he  is  obliged  to  enter- 
tain us  in  the  absence  of  purely  agreeable  sensations. 
These  mixed  sensations  are  the  ridiculous  and  the 
horrible. 

Homer  makes  Thersites  hideous,  in  order  to  make 
him  ridiculous.  But  it  is  not  through  his  ugliness 
alone  that  he  becomes  ridiculous  ; for  ugliness  is 
imperfection,  and  to  produce  the  ridiculous,  a 

175 


176  LAOCOON 

contrast  between  perfection  and  imperfection  is 
required. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  my  friend1,  to  which  I 
would  add  this  contrast  must  not  be  too  rough  and 
too  sharp,  that  the  Opposite  to  use  the  language  of 
the  painter,  must  be  such  as  can  blend  with  each 
other.  The  wise  and  good  Aesop  would  not  be  ridi- 
culous if  you  gave  him  the  ugliness  of  Thersites.  It 
was  a stupid  monk’s  trick  to  attempt  to  transfer  to 
his  person,  by  reason  of  its  deformity,  the  TcAolov  of 
his  very  instructive  fables.  For  a deformed  body 
and  a beautiful  soul  are  like  oil  and  vinegar,  which, 
however  we  may  shake  them  together,  remain 
always  distinct  to  the  taste.  They  do  not  pro- 
duce a third  sentiment,  the  body  excites  displeasure, 
the  soul  pleasure  ; each  its  own  sentiment  for  itself. 
It  is  only  when  the  deformed  body  is  at  once 
infirm  and  sick,  when  it  hinders  the  soul  in  its  oper- 
ations, when  it  becomes  the  source  of  injurious 
prejudices  against  itself,  then  displeasure  and 
pleasure  flow  together  ; but  the  new  phenomenon 
which  results  from  this  is  not  ridicule  but  com- 
passion, and  the  object,  which  without  this  would 
only  have  possessed  our  esteem,  becomes  interesting 
to  us.  The  deformed  and  sickly  Pope  must  have 
been  far  more  interesting  to  his  friends  than  the 
handsome  and  healthy  Wicherley  was  to  his.  But 
if  Thersites2  was  not  made  ridiculous  by  ugliness 
alone,  he  would  not  have  been  ridiculous  without 
ugliness.  This  ugliness,  and  the  conformity  of  this 
ugliness  with  his  character ; the  contradiction  which 
both  presented  to  the  idea  which  he  entertained  of 
his  own  importance  ; the  injurious  effect  of  his 
malevolent  garrulity,  humiliating  in  its  result  to 
himself  alone  : all  must  work  together  for  this  end. 
The  last  circumstance  is  the  ov  (pdapriKbv3,  which 
Aristotle  considers  as  indispensable  to  the  ridiculous. 
My  friend 4 (Mendelssohn)  considers  it  also  to  be  a 
necessary  condition  that  the  required  contrast  be  of 
no  importance,  and  does  not  interest  us  very  much. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


177 


For  let  us  remember  that  if  Thersites  himself  had 
been  punished  for  his  malignant  depreciation  of 
Agamemnon  by  death,  instead  of  by  a blow  raising 
two  bloody  weals,  we  should  cease  to  laugh.  For 
this  monster  of  a man  is  still  a man,  whose  de- 
struction must  always  appear  to  us  as  a greater 
evil  than  all  his  crimes  and  vices.  In  order  to  be 
aware  of  this,  we  have  only  to  read  the  account  of 
his  death  by  Quintus  Calaber5.  Achilles  regrets 
having  slain  Penthesilea  ; her  beauty,  covered  with 
her  blood  so  bravely  shed,  excites  the  high  esteem 
and  sympathy  of  the  hero  : high  esteem  and  sym- 
pathy become  love.  The  calumniating  Thersites 
makes  this  love  a crime,  He  rages  against  volup- 
tuousness which  seduces  the  bravest  man  into  follies 

‘Hr’  cKppova,  <f>c*)Ta  riOriai 
Kal  Tnvvr'bv  irep  iovra. 

Achilles  is  enraged,  and,  without  saying  a word, 
smites  him  so  cruelly  between  the  cheek  and  the 
ear,  that  his  teeth,  his  blood,  and  his  soul  are  vomited 
out  at  the  same  time.  It  is  too  dreadful.  The 
furious  homicide  Achilles  becomes  more  odious  to 
me  than  the  envious,  grumbling  Thersites.  The 
scream  of  joy  which  the  Greeks  utter  at  this  act 
revolts  me,  and  I take  the  side  of  Diomede,  who 
has  already  drawn  his  sword  to  avenge  the  murder 
of  his  kinsman  ‘ for  I feel  that  Thersites  is  also  akin 
to  me,  that  he  is  a man  6. 

Let  us,  however,  suppose  that  the  instigations  of 
Thersites  had  broken  out  into  mutiny,  that  the 
rebellious  people  had  really  embarked  in  the  ships, 
and  had  treacherously  deserted  their  leaders,  that 
their  leaders  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a foe 
thirsting  for  vengeance,  and  that  a divine  punish- 
ment had  caused  the  entire  destruction  of  the  fleet 
and  people : how  would  the  ugliness  of  Thersites  have 
then  appeared  to  us?  If  impotent  ugliness  may 
appear  ridiculous,  harmful  ugliness  is  at  all  times 
horrible.  I do  not  know  how  to  illustrate  this 

N 


178 


LAOGOON 


better  than  by  the  citation  of  two  admirable  pas- 
sages from  Shakspere.  Edmund,  the  bastard  of  the 
Earl  of  Gloster,  in  King  Lear , is  not  a less  miscreant 
than  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  who  has  made  his 
way  by  perpetrating  the  most  horrible  enormities  to 
the  throne,  which,  under  the  name  of  Richard  the 
Third,  he  ascended.  But  how  comes  it  to  pass  that 
the  former  does  not  excite  the  same  amount  of 
shuddering  and  horror  as  the  latter?  When  I hear 
the  bastard  say 7 

Thou,  Nature,  art  my  goddess  ; to  thy  law 
My  services  are  bound.  Wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  place  of  custom,  and  permit 
The  curiosity  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 

For  that  I am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moonshines 
Lag  of  a brother?  why  bastard  ? Wherefore  base  ? 

When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 

My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true 
As  honest  madam’s  issue?  Why  brand  they  thus 
With  base?  with  baseness ? bastardy?  base,  base? 

Who  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  Nature  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality, 

Than  doth  within  a dull,  stale,  tired  bed, 

Go  to  the  creating  a whole  tribe  of  fops, 

Got  ’tween  asleep  and  wake  ? 

Here  I hear  a devil,  but  I see  in  him  the  form  of  an 
angel  of  light.  On  the  other  hand,  when  I hear  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  say 

But  I,  that  am  not  shaped  for  sportive  tricks, 

Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass  ; 

I,  that  am  rudely  stamp’d,  and  want  love’s  majesty 
To  strut  before  a warn  on  ambling  nymph ; 

I,  that  am  curtail’d  of  this  fair  proportion. 

Cheat*  d of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 

Deform'd,  unfinish’d,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 

And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashion  ably, 

The  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I halt  by  them  : 

Why  I (in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace) 

Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time, 

Unless  to  see  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 

And  descant  on  my  own  deformity  ; 

And,  therefore,  since  I cannot  prove  a lover 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 

I am  determined  to  prove  a villain. 

Here  I hear  a devil  and  see  a devil — in  the  form 
which  the  devil  alone  should  have. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


This  is  the  use  which  the  poet  makes  of  personal 
ugliness  ; what  use  can  the  painter  make  of  it  ? 

Painting,  considered  as  an  imitative  art,  can  ex- 
press ugliness ; painting,  considered  as  a fine  art, 
will  not  express  it.  In  the  former  category,  all 
visible  objects  are  within  its  province  ; in  the  latter 
category  it  includes  oniy  those  visible  objects  which 
awaken  agreeable  sensations*.  But  do  not  disagree- 
able sensations  please  us  in  imitation?  Not  all. 
A discerning  critic  has  already  remarked  this  on 
the  subject  of  disgust  : 

The  representations  of  fear,  he  says,  of  sadness,  horror, 
compassion,  etc. , can  only  excite  our  aversion  in  so  far  as 
we  suppose  them  to  be  caused  by  an  evil  which  is  real. 
These  may  be  resolved  into  agreeable  sensations  by  the 
recollection  that  they  are  illusions  produced  by  art.  But 
the  contrary  sensation  of  disgust  ensues  upon  the  mere 
representation  of  it  to  the  soul,  by  virtue  of  a law  of  the 
imagination,  whether  the  object  is  considered  to  be  real 
or  not.  What  does  it  matter  to  the  offended  imagination 
that  there  is  exhibited  to  it,  in  whatever  degree  of  excel- 
lence, the  imitative  art  ? The  aversion  did  not  arise  from 
the  presumption  that  the  evil  was  real,  but  from  the  mere 
representation  itself,  and  this  is  real.  The  sensations 
of  disgust  come  always  from  nature,  never  from  the 
imitation1. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  ugliness  of  forms. 
This  ugliness  affronts  our  sight,  runs  counter  to  our 
taste  for  order  and  harmony,  and  excites  aversion, 
without  regard  to  the  actual  existence  of  the  object 


* See  passages  from  Aristotle’s  Poetics  and  Rhetoric  at  tlio  end  of 
this  chapter.  It.  P. 

179 


180 


LAOCOON 


in  which  we  perceive  it.  We  do  not  like  to  see 
Thersites  in  reality  or  in  a picture ; and  if  we  less 
dislike  his  picture,  that  is  not  because  the  ugliness 
of  his  form  ceases  to  be  ugliness  in  the  picture,  but 
because  we  have  the  power  to  abstract  ourselves 
from  this  ugliness,  and  to  please  ourselves  exclu- 
sively with  the  art  of  the  painter.  But  even  this 
gratification  is  marred  every  moment  by  reflecting 
on  the  bad  application  which  is  made  of  art,  and 
this  reflection  will  seldom  fail  to  bring  with  it  a 
low  estimation  of  the  artist. 

Aristotle2  assigns  another  cause  why  things  which 
we  see  with  repugnance  in  their  own  nature,  give 
satisfaction  in  their  representation,  when  most  ac- 
curate : the  reason  is  the  universal  curiosity  of  man. 
We  are  sensible  of  enjoyment  when  either  we  can 
learn  from  the  copy  rl  zkclcttov,  what  each  thing  is  ; 
or  when  we  can  conclude  from  it  on  ovros  eKeivos, 
that  it  is  this  or  that  object.  But  no  conclusion 
can  be  drawn  in  favour  of  the  imitation  of  ugliness. 
The  satisfaction  which  springs  from  the  gratification 
of  our  desire  is  momentary,  and  is  only  accidentally 
incident  to  the  object  which  gratifies  us ; the  dis- 
satisfaction, on  the  other  hand,  which  accompanies 
the  aspect  of  ugliness  is  permanent,  and  is  essential 
to  the  object  which  awakens  it.  How  can  the 
former  balance  the  latter  h Still  less  can  the  small 
amusement  which  the  observation  of  similarity 
affords  us,  overcome  the  disagreeable  effect  of  ugli- 
ness. The  closer  I compare  the  hateful  imitation 
with  the  hateful  original,  the  more  I expose  myself 
to  this  effect,  so  that  the  pleasure  of  comparison 
soon  vanishes,  and  leaves  me  nothing  but  the  dis- 
agreeable impression  of  double  ugliness.  To  judge 
by  the  examples  which  Aristotle  gives,  he  appears 
as  if  he  had  not  himself  meant  to  consider  the 
ugliness  of  form  as  belonging  to  the  category  of 
disagreeable  objects  which  give  pleasure  in  the 
imitation.  These  examples  are  savage  beasts  and 
corpses.  Savage  beasts  excite  horror  even  when 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


181 


they  are  not  ugly,  and  it  is  this  horror,  not  their 
ugliness,  which  in  imitation  becomes  lost  in  a feeling 
of  satisfaction.  So  also  with  corpses.3  It  is  the 
sharper  feeling  of  sympathy,  the  terrifying  thought 
of  our  own  future  annihilation,  which  in  nature 
makes  a corpse  to  be  a revolting  object.  In  the 
imitation,  however,  this  sympathy  loses,  from  a 
perception  of  the  deceit,  its  painfulness,  and,  as  to 
the  fatal  recollection,  the  addition  of  flattering  cir- 
cumstances either  entirely  withdraws  us  from  it,  or 
is  so  inseparably  connected  with  it,  that  it  appears 
to  us  rather  as  an  attractive  than  a terrifying 
object.  As  therefore  the  ugliness  of  forms  on  ac- 
count of  the  sensation  it  excites  is  disagreeable,  and 
yet  does  not  belong  to  that  class  of  disagreeable 
sensations  which  in  imitation  are  changed  into 
those  that  are  agreeable,  and  cannot  of  itself  be  the 
object  of  painting  as  a fine  art ; it  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  it  cannot,  as  in  poetry,  be  made  useful 
as  an  ingredient  to  strengthen  other  sensations. 
Can  painting,  in  order  to  produce  the  ridiculous 
and  the  terrible,  make  use  of  ugly  forms  ? 

I will  not  venture  to  answer  this  question  with  a 
direct  negative.  It  is  indisputable  that  impotent 
ugliness  may  become  ridiculous  in  painting ; espe- 
cially if  an  affectation  of  grace  and  dignity  be  united 
with  it.  It  is  equally  incontestable  that  ugliness 
with  the  power  to  injure  excites  in  painting,  as  well 
as  in  nature,  horror,  and  that  this  ridicule  and  this 
horror,  which  in  themselves  are  mixed  sensations, 
obtain  in  imitation  an  increased  power,  the  former 
of  attractiveness,  the  latter  of  olfensiveness. 

I must,  however,  remember  that  nevertheless 
painting  and  poetry  are  not  exactly  in  the  same 
condition.  In  poetry,  as  I have  remarked,  the  ugli- 
ness of  form  loses  almost  entirely  its  disagreeable 
effect,  because  it  changes  its  co-existing  into  succes- 
sive parts.  Considered  in  this  way,  it  ceases  almost 
to  be  ugliness,  and  may  be  intimately  united  with 
other  phenomena  in  order  to  produce  a new  and 


182 


LAOCOON 


special  effect.  In  painting,  on  the  contrary,  ugli- 
ness has  all  its  forces  collected  together,  and  has 
nearly  as  strong  an  effect  as  in  nature  herself. 
Impotent  ugliness,  therefore,  cannot  long  remain 
ridiculous ; the  disagreeable  sensation  gets  the 
upper  hand,  and  that  which  in  the  first  moment 
was  ludicrous  in  the  sequel  becomes  simply  horrible. 
And  it  is  the  same  with  ugliness  which  has  the 
power  to  injure,  the  horror  gradually  disappears, 
and  the  deformity  remains  alone  and  unchangeable. 

All  this  being  considered,  Count  Caylus  was  per- 
fectly right  in  omitting  the  episode  of  Thersites 
from  the  gallery  of  his  Homeric  pictures.  But  are 
we  therefore  right  in  wishing  that  it  was  absent 
from  Homer  itself  ? I am  sorry  to  find  that  a 
learned  man,  otherwise  of  a very  correct  and  fine 
taste,  is  of  this  opinion 4.  I reserve  for  another 
place  a fuller  discussion  of  this  subject5. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


The  second  distinction  which  the  above-mentioned 
critic  finds  between  disgust  and  other  unpleasant 
emotions  of  the  soul,  is  manifested  in  the  displeasure 
which  the  ugliness  of  form  excites  in  us. 

Other  unpleasing  passions,  he  says,  are  able,  not 
only  in  imitation,  but  even  in  nature  herself,  to  flatter 
our  natural  disposition.  This  is  because  they  never  excite 
simple  displeasure,  but  always  mingle  the  bitterness  of  it 
with  voluptuousness.  Our  Fear  is  rarely  altogether  with- 
out Hope  ; Terror  quickens  all  our  faculties  to  avoid  the 
danger  ; Anger  is  combined  with  the  desire  for  Vengeance  ; 
Sorrow  with  the  pleasant  recollection  of  former  Happi- 
ness ; 1 Sympathy  is  inextricably  interwoven  with  the 
tender  feelings  of  Love  and  Affection.  The  soul  is  at 
liberty  to  dwell  at  one  time  on  the  pleasing,  at  another  on 
the  displeasing  elements  of  an  affection,  and  to  compound 
for  itself  a medley  of  what  is  pleasing  and  displeasing, 
which  is  more  charming  than  the  purely  unmixed  emotion 
of  pleasure.  Everybody  who  has  paid  any  attention  to 
himself  must  have  often  observed  this.  And  how  other- 
wise does  it  happen  that  to  the  Angry  man  his  Anger,  to 
the  Sorrowing  man  his  Sorrow,  is  more  acceptable  than 
all  the  joyous  images  with  which  we  endeavour  to  tran- 
quillise  him  ? But  it  is  altogether  a different  case  with 
disgust,  and  the  emotions  connected  with  it.  The  soul 
does  not  recognise  in  them  any  perceptible  admiration  of 
what  is  pleasing.  What  is  displeasing  gets  the  upper 
hand,  and  therefore  there  is  no  situation  conceivable  in 
Nature  or  in  Imitative  Art,  in  which  the  natural  dis- 
position does  not  recoil  with  aversion  from  a representation 
of  this  kind. 

Quite  true.  But  as  the  critic  himself  admits  that 
other  emotions  are  allied  with  that  of  disgust,  and 

183 


184 


LAOCOON 


which  excite,  as  it  does,  aversion,  what  can  be  more 
closely  allied  to  it  than  the  perception  of  ugliness 
of  form  ? This  is  also  in  Nature  without  the  least 
admixture  of  Pleasure  ; and  as  it  is  equally  incapable 
of  it  in  imitation,  there  is  no  imaginable  situation 
in  which  the  natural  disposition  does  not  turn  away 
with  aversion  from  the  representation  of  it.  Yet 
this  aversion,  if,  at  least,  I have  analysed  my  feelings 
with  sufficient  accuracy,  is  altogether  of  the  nature 
of  disgust.  The  sensation  which  is  inspired  by 
ugliness  of  form  is  disgust,  only  in  a less  degree. 
It  is  true  that  this  is  at  variance  with  another 
observation  of  the  critic,  according  to  which  he 
believes  that  only  the  obtusest  sense,  taste,  smell, 
and  touch,  are  exposed  to  disgust.  ‘ The  two  former 7 
he  says,  ‘ on  account  of  an  excessive  sweetness,  and 
the  latter  on  account  of  too  great  softness  of  bodies 
which  do  not  sufficiently  withstand  the  excitable 
fibres.  These  objects  become  intolerable  to  the 
sight,  but  only  by  reason  of  the  association  of  ideas, 
because  it  reminds  us  of  the  aversion  which  they 
create  in  the  taste,  smell,  or  touch.  For,  to  speak 
accurately,  there  is  no  object  of  disgust  to  the  sight.7 
Nevertheless  I think  it  would  be  easy  to  mention 
some.  A brand  in  the  face,  a hare-lip,  a broken 
nose  with  projecting  nostrils,  an  entire  want  of 
eyebrows,  are  ugliness  which  do  not  offend  the 
smell,  touch,  or  taste.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  we  are 
conscious  of  a feeling  which  approaches  much  more 
nearly  to  disgust  than  that  which  is  caused  by  other 
deformities  of  the  body,  such  as  a crooked  foot  or  a 
humped  back.  The  more  delicate  our  temperament 
is,  the  more  are  we  susceptible  of  those  physical 
symptoms  which  precede  the  act  of  vomiting.  It 
is  true  that  these  sensations  soon  disappear,  and 
probably  no  vomiting  takes  place,  the  cause  of  which 
will  be  found  to  be,  that  they  are  objects  of  sight, 
which  take  in  with  them  and  in  them  a number  of 
other  circumstances,  and  in  consequence  of  the 
agreeable  images  which  they  produce,  the  earlier 


CHAPTER  XXY 


185 


disagreeable  images  are  so  weakened  and  obscured 
that  they  have  no  decided  influence  over  the  body. 
The  obtuser  senses,  on  the  contrary — the  taste,  the 
smell,  the  touch— when  they  are  affected  by  dis- 
gusting objects,  take  no  cognizance  of  other  circum- 
stances. The  object  of  aversion,  therefore,  operates 
alone  and  in  its  full  strength,  and  must  necessarily 
be  accompanied  by  a more  violent  sensation. 

To  the  imitative  arts  the  disgusting  bears  the 
same  relation  as  the  ugly.  Indeed,  as  the  disagree- 
able operation  of  the  former  is  stronger,  it  can  still 
less  than  the  ugly  become  a subject  either  for  Paint- 
ing or  for  Poetry.  Nevertheless,  as  it  is  capable  of 
being  softened  in  verbal  expression,  I may  assert 
with  confidence  that  the  poet  may  use  the  disgust- 
ing features  at  least  as  an  ingredient  for  those 
mixed  sensations  to  which  ugliness  lends  so  great 
an  assistance. 

The  disgusting  can  increase  the  ridiculous  : in 
other  words,  the  representation  of  moral  worth,  of 
dignity,  put  in  contrast  with  the  disgusting,  become 
ridiculous.  Many  examples  of  this  are  to  be  found 
in  Aristophanes.  I remember  the  lizard  which 
interrupted  the  astronomical  speculations  of  the 
good  Socrates 2 

MA0.  Ylpdyv  de  ye  yvdjfxyv  fieyaXy^  cupypeOr] 

tr Ttt ’ avKaXafioorov.  2TP.  T iva  rp6irov  ; Karenre  fioi . 
MA0.  Zyrovvros  avrov  ri }s  ae\i]vr\s  ras  oSovs 
Kai  ras  nepicpopas,  elr  auco  Kex^^^ros 
’And  rrjs  opocprjs  vvKrwp  yaXewrys  Karex^frev. 

5TP.  "HaOyv  ya\ eury  Karax^avn  Scaicparous. 

If  you  take  away  the  disgusting  character  of  what 
falls  into  his  mouth,  the  ridiculous  disappears  at 
once.  The  drollest  traits  of  this  kind  are  to  be 
found  in  the  Hottentot  narrative  Tquassouw  and 
Knonmquaiha,  in  the  Connoisseur 3,  an  English  weekly 
paper  which  is  ascribed  to  Lord  Chesterfield.  We 
know  how  filthy  the  Hottentots  are,  and  how  much 
there  is  which  they  esteem  as  delicate  and  holy 


186 


LAOCOOH 


which  only  excites  in  ns  disgust  and  horror : a 
squashed  nose,  flabby  breasts  hanging  down  to  the 
navel,  the  whole  body  anointed  with  a varnish  of 
goat’s  fat,  the  locks  clotted  with  grease,  the  feet 
and  arms  entwined  with  fresh  entrails  : conceive 
this  to  be  the  object  of  an  ardent,  reverential,  tender 
love  : let  us  imagine  these  details  expressed  in  the 
noble  language  of  earnest  admiration,  and  abstain 
from  laughing. 

The  disgusting  appears  to  ally  itself  yet  more 
closely  with  the  terrible.  What  we  call  the  horrible 
(Grasliche)  is  nothing  more  than  a disgust  with, 
terror.  In  the  picture  of  sorrow  drawn  by  Hesiod4, 
the  trait  tt)s  in  i*kv  piv&v  /uv%cu  peov  displeases  Lon- 
ginus5, not  so  much,  as  it  seems  to  me,  because 
it  is  a disgusting  trait,  as  because  it  is  nothing  but 
a disgusting  trait.  For  he  does  not  seem  to  wish  to 
blame  the  long  nails  stretching  out  beyond  the 
fingers  (p.aKpo\  5’  owx*s  x6LP€(r<riv  Yet  long 

nails  are  not  less  disgusting  than  a running  nose. 
But  the  long  nails6  are  at  the  same  time  terrible, 
for  with  them  the  cheeks  are  torn  so  that  blood 
runs  from  them  to  the  earth. 

€K  5e  7 rapeicov 
A Tfi  aireXtlficT'  «pa£e. 

On  the  other  hand,  a running  nose  is  nothing  but  a 
running  nose ; and  I only  advise  sorrow  to  shut  her 
mouth.  Let  any  one  read  in  Sophocles  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  desert  cave  of  the  wretched  Philoctetes  : 
no  trace  of  provisions  to  support  life  or  of  ordinary 
appliances  are  to  be  seen,  except  a trodden  heap  of 
dry  leaves,  a shapeless  wooden  cup,  some  imple- 
ments for  the  fire — the  whole  wealth  of  the  diseased, 
deserted  man  ! How  does  the  poet  fill  up  this  sad 
and  fearful  picture  ? With  the  addition  of  a trait 
of  disgust.  4 Ha  ! ’ says  Neoptolemus,  shrinking 
with  horror,  4 here  are  torn  pieces  of  rag  put  out  to 
dry  full  of  blood  and  matter 


CHAPTER  XXV 


187 


NE.  'O pCO  K€U7JV  oKk7](TLV  CLVOpdoTTCtiV  8lXCC* 

OA.  Ou5’  ivfiov  oIkottoi6s  earl  ns  Tpcxpfi; 

NE.  2t6£7tt^  ye  <pv\\as  cds  evavXl^ovrl  rep. 

OA*  Ta  $’  &AA*  eprjjna , Kovdev  eaO’  vnoareyov  ; 

NE.  AvrS^vXov  y eKTroo/na,  (pXavpovpyov  nvbs 
T ex^ju-ar’  ardpbs,  real  re vpeT  o/iov  rade. 

OA.  Keivov  rb  Orjaavpia/ia  arr) /naive is  rode. 

N£.  ’iou,  lob'  ical  ravra  7’  & AAa  BaXirerai 
'Panri  /Bapetas  rov  voarjXelas  irXea7. 

So,  in  Homer,  Hector  dragged  along  his  face  covered 
with  blood  and  dust,  his  hair  matted  together. 

Squalentem  barbam  et  concretos  sanguine  crines  8 

(as  Virgil  says)  is  an  object  of  disgust,  but  all  tho 
more  on  that  account  a more  horrible  and  affecting 
object.  Who  can  think  of  the  punishment  of  Mar- 
syas  in  Ovid  without  a feeling  of  disgust  ? 9 

Clamanti  cutis  est  suramos  derepta  per  artus  ; 

Nec  quidquam,  nisi  vulnus,  erat : cruor  umlique  manat ; 

Detectiq1  e patent  nervi,  trepidaeque  sine  ulla 

Pelle  micant  venae ; salientia  viscera  possis 

Et  perlucentes  numerare  in  pectore  fibras. 

Who  does  not  perceive  that  the  disgusting  is  here 
in  its  right  place  ? It  makes  the  terrible  horrible, 
and  the  horrible  is  of  itself,  in  its  own  nature,  if 
our  sympathy  be  interested  in  it,  not  altogether 
unpleasing  ; how  much  less  so  in  imitation  ! I will 
not  multiply  examples  ; but  I must  observe  that 
there  is  a kind  of  terrible  to  which  the  poet  can 
find  his  way  open  almost  solely  through  the  dis- 
gusting. It  is  the  terror  of  hunger.  Even  in  com- 
mon life  we  express  the  extremest  pressure  of 
hunger,  no  otherwise  than  through  the  narrative  of 
all  the  unnourishing,  unwholesome,  and  thoroughly 
disgusting  things  with  which  the  belly  must  per- 
force be  satisfied.  Since  imitation  cannot  excite  in 
us  anything  of  the  feeling  of  hunger,  it  takes  refuge 
in  another  disagreeable  sensation,  but  which,  in  the 
case  of  the  most  distressing  hunger,  we  recognize 
as  a less  evil.  This  it  seeks  to  excite  in  order  to 


188 


LAOCOON 


make  us  infer  from  the  unpleasant  character  of  it 
how  strong  the  unpleasant  character  of  the  other 
must  be  which  makes  us  forget  the  loathsomeness 
which  is  present  before  us.  Ovid  says  of  the  Oread, 
whom  Ceres  sent  to  hunger10 

Hanc  (Famem)  procul  ut  vidit, 

. . refert  mandata  deae  ; paulumque  morata, 

Quanquam  aberat  longe,  quanquam  modo  venerat  illuc, 

Visa  tamen  sensisse  Famem. 

An  unnatural  exaggeration  ! The  sight  of  one  who 
is  hungry,  and  even  if  it  were  hunger  itself  has  not 
this  contagious  power ; pity  and  horror  and  disgust 
the  sight  may  cause,  but  not  hunger.  Of  this  horror 
Ovid  has  been  lavish  in  his  picture  of  Fames ; and 
in  the  hunger  of  Eresichthon,  both  in  his  account 
and  that  of  Callimachus11,  the  most  disgusting 
features  are  the  strongest.  After  Eresichthon  had 
devoured  everything  and  had  not  spared  even  the 
sacrificial  cow  (which  his  mother  had  nourished  for 
Vesta),  Callimachus  makes  him  fall  upon  horses  and 
cats,  and  go  begging  in  the  streets  for  scraps  and 
filthy  remnants  from  the  tables  of  strangers 

. Kal  rav  fiobv  e(pa •yev  rav  'Erria  erpecpe  pLarrip, 

I Kal  rbv  aeOAocpbpov  Kal  rbv  Tro\e/ui7)Xov  'Uttov. 

Kal  rav  aXXovpov , rav  %r pe/ue  OrjiJLa  /jukk^l, 

Kal  rod’  6 ra>  fiacriArjos  evl  TpiodoKTt  Kadrjffro 
AirtGoov  aKdXcas  re  Kal  c/cjSoAa  A {f/aara  dairos. 

And  Ovid  at  last  makes  him  fasten  his  own  teeth 
into  his  own  limbs,  in  order  to  nourish  his  own 
body  with  his  own  body 

Vis  tamen  ilia  mali  postquam  consumserat  omnem 
Materiam. 

Ipse  suos  artus  laeero  divellere  morsu 
Coepit ; et  infelix  minuendo  corpus  alebat. 

The  only  reason  why  the  hateful  harpies  are 
made  so  stinking  and  so  uncleanly  is  that  the 
hunger  which  is  caused  by  their  carrying  off  the 
food  may  be  the  more  terrible.  Listen  to  the 
complaint  of  Phineas  in  Apollonius12 


CHAPTER  XXV 


189 


Ti nObv  5’  fjv  apa  drj7 tot  edrjrvos  d/x/LU  Anrcotn, 

Tlvei  ride  fxvdaXeov  re  kol  o v tA rjrhu  fxevos  od^ris. 

Ov  Ke  ns  ovde  fxlvvvQa  fSporobv  Hvffxoiro  neXac raas, 

Oud * eX  oi  addjuavros  e\7]\a[Jievov  neap  eXf). 

’AAAa  /Lie  n iKpj]  fir/ra  Ke  daLrbs  in i(rx€L  ^vdyKit] 

M ifjLveiv,  Ka\  iil/AVovra  /ca/cr)  ev  ycurrepi  QeaQou. 

I should  be  very  glad  to  defend  from  this  point  of* 
view  the  disgusting  introduction  of  the  harpies  by 
Yirgil ; but  there  is  no  real  present  hunger  which 
they  cause,  but  only  an  approaching  hunger  which 
they  predict ; and  then,  moreover,  the  whole  pro- 
phecy resolves  itself  into  a play  upon  words.  Even 
Dante  not  only  prepares  us  for  the  history  of  the 
starvation  of  Ugolino13  by  the  very  disgusting  and 
ghastly  condition  in  which  he  places  him  with  his 
former  persecutor  in  hell ; but  the  starvation  itself 
is  not  without  traits  of  disgust,  which  press  them- 
selves specially  upon  our  attention,  when  the  sons 
offer  themselves  as  food  to  their  father.  In  a note 
I will  cite  a passage  from  a play  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher14,  which,  if  we  were  not  obliged  to  con- 
sider it  as  exaggerated,  might  take  the  place  of  all 
other  examples. 

I now  approach  to  the  consideration  of  disgusting 
objects  in  painting.  Even  if  it  were  indisputable 
that  there  are,  properly  speaking,  no  disgusting 
objects  in  relation  to  sight,  the  very  nature  of 
which  indicates  that  they  cannot  be  within  the 
province  of  painting  considered  as  a fine  art, — even 
then  it  would  be  necessary  to  avoid  objects  which 
are  generally  disgusting  because  the  association  of 
ideas  makes  them  disgusting  to  the  sight. 

Pordenone,  in  a picture  of  the  sepulture  of  Christ, 
represents  a spectator  holding  his  nose.  Richard- 
son15 is  displeased  with  this,  because  Christ  had  not 
been  dead  long  enough  to  allow  his  corpse  to  suffer 
corruption.  At  the  resurrection  of  Lazarus,  on  the 
contrary,  he  thinks  it  is  permitted  to  the  painter 
to  represent  one  of  the  bystanders  doing  this  act, 


190 


LAOCOON 


because  the  history  expressly  says  that  his  body 
already  stank.  To  me  this  representation  appears 
unendurable,  for  not  only  the  actual  stench,  but 
even  the  idea  of  stench,  awakens  disgust.  We  fly 
from  stinking  places  even  when  we  have  a cold. 
But  Painting,  it  will  be  said,  does  not  choose  the 
disgusting  for  the  sake  of  what  is  disgusting  ; she 
chooses  it,  as  Poetry  does,  in  order  to  strengthen 
the  ridiculous  and  the  terrible.  Let  her  do  it  at 
her  own  peril ! The  remarks  which  I have  already 
made  on  this  subject  as  to  the  ugly  apply  still  more 
closely  to  the  disgusting.  That  loses  much  less  of 
its  effect  in  a representation  addressed  to  the  eye 
than  in  one  addressed  to  the  ear.  It  cannot  in  the 
former  become  so  closely  intermingled  with  the 
ridiculous  and  the  terrible  as  in  the  latter  ; as  soon 
as  the  surprise  is  over,  as  soon  as  the  first  eager 
glance  is  satisfied,  it  becomes  separated  altogether, 
and  remains  in  its  own  original  repulsive  form. 


CHAPTER  XXYI 


The  history  of  Art  by  Herr  Winkelmann  has 
appeared  : I will  not  venture  a step  further  without 
having  read  this  work.  To  reason  upon  general 
ideas  about  Art  may  mislead  one  into  whims,  which, 
sooner  or  later,  may  be  found  refuted  by  works  of 
Art.  The  ancients,  as  well  as  we,  were  aware  of 
the  ties  which  knit  Painting  and  Poetry 1 together, 
and  they  w ould  not  have  drawn  them  tighter  than 
was  suitable  for  each.  The  achievements  of  their 
artists  shall  instruct  me  as  to  what  artists  speaking 
generally  should  do  : and  when  such  a man  as 
Winkelmann  lifts  up  the  torch  of  history,  specula- 
tion may  follow  him  with  confidence  2. 

We  are  accustomed  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a 
work  of  importance  before  we  set  to  work  to  read 
it  through  steadily.  My  curiosity  was  to  ascertain 
before  anything  else  the  author’s  opinion  about 
Laocoon ; not  indeed  so  much  with  respect  to  the 
merit  of  the  work,  upon  that  he  had  elsewhere 
already  expressed  his  opinion,  as  with  respect  to 
the  date  of  it.  To  which  party  will  he  adhere  ? To 
that  which  thinks  that  Virgil  had  the  group  before 
his  eyes'?  or  to  that  which  holds  that  the  artist 
worked  on  the  model  of  the  poet  ? 

The  author  is  entirely  silent  on  the  question  of 
reciprocal  imitation,  and  this  is  quite  in  accordance 
with  my  taste.  Where  is  the  absolute  necessity  for* 
it?  It  is  not  at  all  impossible  that  the  points  of 
resemblance,  which  I have  been  bringing  under 
consideration  between  the  poetical  picture  and  the 
work  of  art  are  only  accidental  and  not  intended  : 
and  that  so  little  has  the  one  been  the  model  of  the 
other  that  they  do  not  even  appear  to  have  once 

191 


192 


LAOCOON 


made  use  of  the  same  model.  If  indeed  Winkel- 
mann  had  been  dazzled  by  an  appearance  of  imita- 
tion, he  would  have  pronounced  in  favour  of  the 
work  of  the  artist  having  been  the  model  to  the 
poet.  For  he  is  of  opinion  that  Laocoon  belongs  to 
the  period  when  the  art  of  the  Greeks  had  reached 
its  highest  pinnacle  : the  period  of  Alexander  the 
Great 3. 

A benevolent  destiny,  he  says,  which  watches  over  the 
arts  even  at  the  period  of  their  destruction,  has  preserved 
to  us  for  the  admiration  of  all  ages  a work  of  art  of  this 
epoch,  as  a proof  of  the  truth  with  which  history  records 
the  glory  of  so  many  masterpieces  now  lost  to  us.  Laocoon 
with  his  two  sons,  the  joint  composition  of  Agesander, 
Apollodorus4,  and  Athenodorus  of  Rhodes,  belongs,  ac- 
cording to  all  probability,  to  this  epoch,  although  it  may 
not  be  possible  to  specify,  as  some  have  done,  the  Olympiad 
in  which  this  artist  flourished. 

And  then  he  adds  in  a note 

Pliny  does  not  say  one  word  as  to  the  time  in  which 
Agesander  and  his  fellow-workmen  lived  ; Maffei,  how- 
ever,  in  his  explanatory  remarks  on  the  ancient  statues, 
has  chosen  to  he  convinced  that  this  artist  flourished  in 
the  eighty- eighth  Olympiad,  and  his  authority  others,  like 
Richardson,  have  followed.  I think  Maffei  has  mistaken 
an  Athenodorus,  one  of  the  scholars  of  Polycletus  ; and 
as  Polycletus  flourished  in  the  eighty-seventh  Olympiad, 
has  placed  his  supposed  scholar  in  a later  Olympiad  : 
Maffei  has  no  other  grounds  for  his  opinion. 

He  can  certainly  have  no  other  grounds.  But 
why  does  Herr  Winkelmann  content  himself  with 
merely  exposing  the  error  of  Maffei  ? Does  it  refute 
itself?  Not  entirely.  For  although  it  is  not  sup- 
ported by  any  other  grounds,  still  it  has  in  itself  a 
slight  probability,  unless  we  can  prove  that  Atheno- 
dorus, the  scholar  of  Polycletus,  and  Athenodorus, 
the  assistant  of  Agesander  and  Polydorus,  could  not 
possibly  be  one  and  the  same  person.  Fortunately 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


193 


this  can  be  proved,  and,  moreover,  that  they  did 
not  belong  to  the  same  country.  The  first  A then  o- 
dorus  was,  according  to  the  express  testimony  of 
Pausanias  6,  of  Clitor  in  Arcadia.  The  other,  accord- 
ing to  the  testimony  of  Pliny,  was  born  at  Rhodes. 
Herr  Winkelmann  could  not  have  intended  to  ab- 
stain from  refuting  incontestably  the  mistake  of 
Maffei,  and  for  that  reason  not  have  brought  for- 
ward this  circumstance.  Rather  must  the  reasons 
which  he  deduces  from  the  art  of  the  work,  and 
which  he  founds  upon  an  indisputable  knowledge, 
have  appeared  to  him  so  important  that  he  did 
not  trouble  himself  with  considering  whether  the 
opinion  of  Maffei  has  or  has  not  any  appearance  of 
probability.  He  doubtless  recognises  in  the  Laocoon 
so  many  of  those  argutiae  which  are  characteristic 
of  Lysippus 6,  and  with  which  this  master  first  en- 
riched the  art,  as  to  render  it  impossible  that  this 
could  have  been  a work  anterior  to  his  time. 

But  when  it  is  demonstrated  that  the  Laocoon 
cannot  be  older  than  Lysippus,  is  it  thereby  demon- 
strated that  the  Laocoon  must  belong  to  about  the 
time  of  this  sculptor  ? that  it  cannot  possibly  be  of 
a much  later  date?  I pass  over  the  periods  in 
which,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  Roman  monarchy, 
Art  in  Greece  at  one  time  lifted  up,  at  another  hung 
down,  her  head  : but  why  might  not  the  Laocoon 
have  been  the  happy  fruit  of  competition  amongst 
the  artists  which  the  extravagant  splendour  of  the 
first  Caesars  kindled  into  life?  Why  could  not 
Agesander  and  his  fellow- workmen  have  been  the 
contemporaries  of  a Strongylion,  an  Arcesilaus,  a 
Pasiteles,  a Posidonius,  a Diogenes  ? Would  not  the 
works  of  even  these  masters  be  equally  prized  with 
the  best  which  Art  ever  produced  ? And  if  un- 
doubted works  of  Art  by  them  were  in  our  posses- 
sion, but  the  age  of  the  authors  was  unknown,  and 
could  only  be  inferred  from  their  art,  what  a divine 
inspiration  must  have  been  necessary  to  prevent 
the  critic  from  believing  that  they  belonged  to  that 


194 


LAOCOON 


period  which  Herr  Winkelmann  considers  to  have 
been  alone  worthy  to  produce  the  Laocoon  ! 

It  is  true  Pliny  does  not  expressly  mark  the  time 
in  which  the  artists  of  the  Laocoon  lived.  But  if  I 
was  obliged  to  draw  a conclusion  from  the  whole 
tenor  of  the  passage  whether  he  intended  to  place 
them  among  the  old  or  the  new  artists  ; I confess 
that  it  appears  to  me  that  the  latter  opinion  has 
the  greater  probability.  Let  any  man  judge. 

After  Pliny  had  spoken  in  some  detail  of  the 
most  ancient  and  greatest  masters  of  sculpture,  of 
Phidias,  of  Praxiteles,  of  Scopas,  and  afterwards 
had  named,  without  any  chronological  order,  the 
rest,  especially  those  of  whose  works  there  were 
some  traces  existing  in  Home:  he  continues  as 
follows 

Nec  multo  plurium  fama  est  *,  quorundam  claritati  in 
operibus  eximiis  obstante  numero  artificum,  quoniam  nec 
unus  occupat  gloriam,  nec  plures  pariter  nuncupari  pos- 
sunt,  sicut  in  Laocoonte  qui  est  in  Tibi  Imperatoris  domo, 
opus  omnibus  et  picturae  et  statuariae  artis  praeferen- 
dum.  Ex  uno  lapide  eum  et  liberos  draconumque  mira- 
biles  nexus  de  consilii  sententia  fecere  summi  artifices 
Agesarider  eT Polydorus  et  Atiienodorus  Rhodii.  Simili- 
ter Palatinas  domus  Caesarum  replevere  probatissimis 
signis  Craterus  cum  Pythodoro,  Polydectes  cum  Hermo- 
lao,  Pythodorus  alius  cum  Artemone,  et  singularis  Aphro- 
disius  Trallianus.  Agrippae  Pantheum  decoravit  Dio- 
genes Atheniensis,  et  Caryatides  in  columnis  templi  ejus 
probantur  inter  pauca  operum : sicut  in  fastigio  posita 
signa,  sed  propter  altitudinem  loci  minus  celebrata  7 

Of  all  the  artists  mentioned  in  this  passage 
Diogenes  of  Athens  is  the  one  the  period  of  whose 
existence  is  the  most  certainly  known.  He  adorned 
the  Pantheon  of  Agrippa.  He  therefore  lived  in 
the  time  of  Augustus.  But  let  us  weigh  the  words 
of  Pliny  more  carefully,  and  we  shall,  I think,  find 
that  they  fix  also  as  incontestably  the  age  of  Crate- 

* This  is  incorrectly  cited  by  Lessing,  it  should  be  ‘ Deinde  multorum 
obscurior,  etc.’  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


195 


rus  and  Pythodorus,  of  Polydectes  and  Hermolaus, 
of  the  second  Pythodorus  and  Artemon,  as  well  as 
of  Aphrodisius  Trallianus.  He  says  of  them : 
‘Palatinas  Domus  Caesarum  replevere  probatissi- 
mis  signis’.  I ask,  can  this  mean  only  that  the 
palaces  of  the  Caesars  were  filled  with  their  excel- 
lent works  ? Meaning,  for  instance,  that  the  Caesars 
had  caused  collections  of  them  to  be  everywhere 
made  in  order  that  they  should  be  transported  into 
their  dwellings  at  Rome  ? Certainly  not.  The 
meaning  must  be  that  these  artists  executed  their 
works  expressly  for  these  palaces  of  the  Caesars, 
and  therefore  that  they  lived  in  the  times  of  these 
Caesars. 

That  there  were  later  artists  who  worked  only  in 
Italy  may  be  concluded  from  the  fact  that  there  is 
no  mention  of  their  having  worked  elsewhere.  If 
they  had  worked  in  earlier  times  in  Greece,  Pausa- 
nias  would  certainly  have  seen  some  one  or  other  of 
their  works  and  would  have  transmitted  to  us  some 
memorial  of  them.  He  does  indeed  mention  a 
Pythodorus,  but  Hardouin  8 is  quite  wrong  in  con- 
sidering him  to  be  the  Pythodorus  mentioned  in 
the  passage  of  Pliny.  For  Pausanias  speaks  of  the 
statue  of  Juno  which  he  saw  at  Coronea  in  Boeotia, 
as  the  work  of  an  early  master,  aya\im  apxcuou,  which 
expression  he  only  applies  to  the  works  of  those 
masters  who  had  lived  in  the  most  primitive  and 
rudest  times  of  the  art,  long  before  Phidias  and 
Praxiteles.  And  with  the  works  of  such  an  art  the 
Emperors  would  certainly  not  have  decorated  their 
palaces.  Still  less  value  is  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
other  suggestion  of  Hardouin,  that  the  Artemon 
mentioned  is  perhaps  a painter  of  the  same  name  of 
whom  Pliny  speaks  in  another  passage.  A con- 
formity of  names  furnishes  only  a very  slender 
probability,  which  is  far  from  authorising  us  to  do 
violence  to  the  natural  interpretation  of  an  uncor- 
rupted passage.  But  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that 
Craterus,  and  Pythodorus,  and  Polydectes,  and 


196 


LAOCOON 


Hermolaus,  with  the  rest,  lived  in  the  times  of  the 
Emperors  whose  palaces  they  filled  with  their  ex- 
cellent works.  Still  it  appears  to  me  that  we  can 
assign  no  other  epoch  to  those  artists  whom  Pliny 
mentions  before  them,  and  from  whom  he  passes  to 
them  with  a Similiter. 

And  these  were  the  master-artists  of  the  Laocoon : 
for  let  us  only  reflect  if  Agesander,  Polydorus,  and 
Athenodorus  were  such  ancient  masters  as  Herr 
Winkelmann  considers  them  to  be ; how  clumsy  it 
would  be  in  a writer,  to  whom  precision  of  expres- 
sion is  no  slight  thing,  if  he  must  at  once  skip  from 
them  to  the  most  modern  masters,  to  make  this 
spring  with  a simple  Similiter. 

But  it  will  be  objected  that  this  Similiter  does  not 
relate  to  a resemblance  in  respect  to  epoch,  but  to 
another  circumstance  which  these  masters,  so  dis- 
similar in  relation  of  time,  have  in  common  with 
each  other.  Pliny  speaks  of  artists  who  worked  in 
a community,  and  who,  on  account  of  this  com- 
munity, were  less  known  than  they  deserved  to  be. 
For  since  no  one  of  them  could  alone  claim  the 
honour  of  the  common  work,  and  yet  it  would  be 
too  long  and  tedious  to  mention  every  time  all 
those  who  had  taken  part  in  it  (‘  quoniam  nec  unus 
occupat  gloriam,  nec  plures  pariter  nuncupari  pos- 
sunt?),  so  it  came  to  pass  that  their  names,  collect- 
ively, were  neglected.  This  has  been  the  misfortune 
of  the  master-artists  of  the  Laocoon  and  of  so  many 
other  artists  whom  the  Emperors  employed  in  the 
decoration  of  their  palaces. 

I agree  to  *this.  But  even  then  it  is  also  most 
probable  that  Pliny  intended  to  speak  only  of  the 
modern  artists  who  worked  in  a community.  For 
if  he  had  intended  to  speak  of  the  ancient  artists, 
why  has  he  only  mentioned  the  artists  of  the 
Laocoon  h Why  not  others  also  ? An  Onatas  and 
a Kalliteles,  a Timocles  and  a Timarchides,  or  the 
sons  of  this  Timarchides,  by  whose  common  labour 
there  was  a Jupiter  executed  in  Borne9.  Herr 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


197 


Winkelmann  himself  says  that  we  might  make  a 
long  catalogue  of  similar  ancient  works  which  had 
been  the  offspring  of  more  than  one  father  10  ; and 
would  Pliny  have  remembered  only  the  individual 
Agesander,  Polydorus,  and  Athenodorus  if  he  had 
not  wished  to  confine  himself  expressly  to  the  most 
modern  times  ? 

Moreover,  if  a conjecture  becomes  the  more 
probable  as  it  tends  to  clear  up  the  greater  number 
of  difficulties,  then  that  conjecture  which  supposes 
the  artist  of  the  Laocoon  to  have  flourished  under 
the  first  Caesars,  certainly  deserves  to  obtain  a very 
high  rank.  For  if  they  had  worked  in  Greece  at 
the  period  which  Herr  Winkelmann  assigns  to 
them  ; if  the  Laocoon  itself  had  originally  been 
executed  in  Greece,  the  deep  silence  which  the 
Greeks  observed  with  respect  to  such  a work 
(‘opere  omnibus  et  picturaeet  statuariae  artis  prae- 
ponendo’)  is  extremely  strange.  It  is  also  ex- 
tremely strange  if  such  great  masters  had  done  no 
other  work,  or  if  Pausanias  has  entirely  everlooked 
these  other  works  throughout  the  whole  of  Greece, 
as  he  did  the  Laocoon.  In  Rome,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  greatest  masterpiece  might  long  have  remained 
concealed,  and  if  Laocoon  had  been  finished  in  the 
reign  of  Augustus,  it  would  nevertheless  not  be  won- 
derful that  Pliny  had  been  the  first  and  the  last 
who  mentioned  it.  For  let  us  only  remember  what 
Scopas  said  of  a Venus  which  stood  in  the  temple 
of  Mars  at  Rome 

Quemcunque  alium  locum  nobilitatura.  Romae  quidem 
magnitudo  operum  earn  obliterat,  ac  inagni  offiGiorum 
negociorumque  acervi  omnes  k contemplatione  talium 
abducunt,  quoniam  otiosorum  et  in  magno  loci  silent io 
apta  admiratio  talis  est 11 

Those  who  see  in  the  Laocoon  group  an  imitation 
of  Virgil’s  Laocoon  will  seize  upon  what  I have  said 
with  pleasure.  Moreover,  a conjecture  occurs  to 
me  which  at  the  same  time  they  will  not  much  dis- 


198 


LAOCOON 


like.  May  it  not  be  supposed  that  it  was  Asinius 
Pollio  who  introduced,  by  means  of  Greek  artists, 
the  Laocoon  of  Virgil?  Pollio  was  a particular 
friend  of  the  Poet,  survived  the  Poet,  and  appears 
to  have  written  a work  of  his  own  upon  the  Aeneid. 
For  where  otherwise  than  in  a work  of  his  own 
upon  the  Aeneid  could  those  observations  have 
appeared  which  Servius  ascribes  to  him  ? 12.  More- 
over, Pollio  was  a lover  and  critic  of  Art,  possessed 
a rich  collection  of  the  best  ancient  works  of  Art, 
caused  new  ones  to  be  executed  by  artists  of  his 
time,  and  so  bold  an  achievement  as  the  Laocoon  was 
altogether,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  collection,  in 
harmony  with  his  taste.  TJt  fuit  acris  vehementiae , 
sic  qnaeque  spectari  monumenta  sua  voluit 13. 

Nevertheless,  as,  in  the  time  of  Pliny,  when  the 
Laocoon  stood  in  the  Palace  of  Titus,  the  cabinet  of 
Pollio,  with  its  whole  collection  still  entire,  appears 
to  have  been  in  a place  apart ; this  conjecture 
must,  on  the  other  hand,  lose  some  of  its  probability. 
And  why  should  not  Titus  himself  have  done  what 
we  wish  to  ascribe  to  Pollio  ? 


CHAPTER  XXYII 


My  opinion  that  the  artists  of  Laocoon,  who 
worked  under  the  first  Caesars  at  least,  could  not 
have  been  so  old  as  Herr  Winkelmann  states,  is 
strengthened  by  a little  discovery  which  he  himself 
first  made.  It  is  the  following 1 

At  Nethuno,  formerly  Antium,  the  Cardinal  Alexander 
Alboni  discovered  in  a great  vault,  which  lay  sunk  in  the 
sea,  a Vase  of  dark  grey  marble,  which  is  now  called 
Bigio , to  which  a figure  had  been  attached,  on  which  was 
found  the  following  inscription 

’A0ANOAHPO2  ’APH^ANAPOY 
‘P0AI02  5EnOIH2E. 

Athanodorus , the  son  of  Agesander  of  Rhodes , made  it. 
We  learn  from  this  inscription  that  father  and  son  worked 
at  the  Laocoon,  and  presumably  Apollodorus  (Polydorus) 
was  the  son  of  Agesander 

for  this  Athanodorus  can  be  no  other  than  the  one 
mentioned  by  Pliny.  This  inscription  also  proves 
that  more  works  of  Art  were  found  than  the  three 
mentioned  by  Pliny  upon  which  the  artists  had 
placed  the  word  done,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  past 
tense,  namely,  eW^o-e,  fecit.  He  maintains  that  the 
other  artists  out  of  modesty  made  use  of  the 
imperfect  tense,  inolei,  faciebat. 

Herr  Winkelmann  will  find  little  opposition  to 
his  assertion  that  the  Athanodorus  in  this  inscrip- 
tion could  be  no  other  than  the  Athenodorus  whom 
Pliny  mentions  among  the  master-artists  of  the 
Laocoon.  Athanodorus  and  Athenodorus  are  one 
and  the  same,  for  the  Rhodians  made  use  of  the  Doric 
dialect.  But  upon  the  conclusions  which  he  would 

199 


200 


LAOCOON 


draw  from  this  fact  I must  make  a few  observations. 
The  first  conclusion,  namely,  that  Athenodorus  was 
the  son  of  Agesander  may  be  legitimate.  It  is  very 
probable,  but  not  incontestable.  For  it.  is  known 
that  there  were  ancient  artists  who,  instead  of 
naming  themselves  after  their  father,  preferred  to 
name  themselves  after  their  master.  What  Pliny 
says  of  the  two  brothers  Apollonius  and  Tauriscus 
admits  of  no  other  explanation.2  But  how  is  this  ? 
Shall  this  inscription  contradict  at  the  same  time 
the  assertion  of  Pliny  that  not  more  than  three 
works  of  art  are  to  be  found  upon  which  master- 
artists  would  have  put  their  names  in  the  past  tense 
[by  eWrjo-e,  instead  of  e™^]?  This  inscription? 
Why  must  we  first  learn  from  this  inscription  what 
we  might  have  well  learnt  from  many  others? 
Have  we  not  already  found  upon  the  statue  of 
Germanicus  K \sofxevris — eirobjo-e,  upon  the  so-called 
deification  of  Homer,  ’APxe\aos  stt oirjo-e,  upon  the 
well-known  vase  at  Gaeta,  SaWav  eVoi^o-e  ? 3 

Herr  Winkelmann  may  say  ‘Who  knows  this 
better  than  I ? \ But  he  must  add,  so  much  the  worse 
for  Pliny,  his  ‘ assertion  is  the  oftener  contradicted, 
and  the  more  certainly  gainsayed  \ 

Not  quite  so.  For  how  would  it  be,  if  Herr 
Winkelmann  has  made  Pliny  say  more  than  he 
really  intended  to  say  ? If  the  examples  which  he 
puts  forward  do  not  contradict  the  assertion  of 
Pliny,  but  merely  the  addition  which  Herr  Winkel- 
mann has  introduced  into  the  assertion  ? Such  is 
really  the  case.  I must  set  forth  the  whole  passage. 
Pliny,  in  his  dedication  to  Titus  * wishes  to  speak 
of  his  work  with  the  modesty  of  a man  who  himself 
best  knows  how  far  it  falls  short  of  perfection.  He 
finds  a remarkable  instance  of  such  a modesty  in 
the  case  of  the  Greeks,  upon  the  boasting  much- 
promising  titles  of  whose  books  [inscriptiones  propter 
quos  vadimonium  deferi  possit ] he  dwells  awhile,  and 
says4 


It  is,  ‘ Vespasiano  suo  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


201 


Et  ne  in  totum  videar  Graecos  insectari,  ex  illis  nos 
velim  intelligi  pingendi  fingendiqne  conditoribus,  quos  in 
libellis  his  invenies,  absoluta  opera,  et  ilia  quoque  quae 
mirando  non  satiamur,  pendent!  titulo  inscripsisse  : UT 
APELLES  FACIEBAT,  aut  POLYCLETUS  : tanquam 
inchoata  semper  arte  et  imperfecta,  ut  contra  judiciorum 
varietates  superesset  artifici  regressus  ad  veniam,  velut 
emendaturo  quicquid  desiderent,  si  non  esset  interceptus. 
Quare  plenum  verecundiae  illud  est,  quod  omnia  opera 
tanquam  novissima  inscripsere,  et  tanquam  singulis  fato 
adempti.  Trianon  amplius,  ut  opinor,  absolute traduntur 
inscripta,  ILLE  FECIT,  quae  suis  locis  reddam  : quo 
apparuit,  summam  artis  securitatem  auctori  placuisse,  et 
ob  id  magna  invidia  fuere  omnia  ea. 

I desire  to  draw  attention  to  the  words  of  Pliny, 
pingendi  fingendiqne  conditoribus.  Pliny  does  not  say 
that  there  has  been  a general  custom  for  artists  to 
use  the  imperfect  tense  in  writing  their  name  upon 
a work  ; that  it  was  a custom  observed  by  all  artists 
at  all  times.  He  says  expressly  that  only  the  first 
ancient  master-artists,  those  creators  of  the  arts  of 
design,  pingendi  fingendiqne  conditores , an  Apelles,  a 
Polycletus,  and  their  contemporaries,  possessed  this 
wise  modesty ; and  by  mentioning  these  only,  he 
silently,  but  pointedly,  gives  us  to  understand,  that 
their  followers,  especially  in  later  times,  expressed 
themselves  with  more  confidence. 

Proceeding  upon  this  supposition,  as  indeed  we 
must,  we  can  allow  the  discovered  inscription  of 
one  of  the  three  artists  of  Laocoon  to  have  full 
authenticity  ; and  yet  it  may  be  true  that,  as  Pliny 
says,  there  have  been  only  three  works  forthcoming, 
in  the  inscriptions  upon  which  their  authors  have 
used  the  past  tense  ; namely,  among  the  old  artists 
of  the  times  of  Apelles,  Polycletus,  Nicias,  Ly- 
sippus. But  that  cannot  justify  the  position  that 
Athenodorus  and  his  assistants  were  contemporaries 
of  Apelles  and  Lysippus,  according  to  the  allegation 
of  Herr  Winkelmann.  Rather  we  must  conclude 
as  follows  : — That  if  it  be  true  that  amongst  the 


202 


LAOCOON 


works  of  the  old  artists,  of  an  Apelles,  a Polycletes, 
and  of  the  rest  of  this  class,  there  have  been  only 
three  who  have  used  the  past  tense  in  their  inscrip- 
tions : if  it  be  true  that  Pliny  has  himself  named 
these  three5,  then  Athenodorus,  to  whom  none  of 
the  three  works  belong,  and  who,  notwithstanding, 
makes  use  of  the  past  tense,  does  not  belong  to  those 
old  artists  ; he  can  be  no  contemporary  of  Apelles, 
or  of  Lysippus,  but  must  be  placed  in  later  times. 

In  one  word,  I believe  that  it  may  be  taken  for 
a very  certain  criterion  that  all  artists  who  make 
use  of  €iro'i7)(T€  have  flourished  long  after  the  time  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  in  a word,  either  before  or 
during  the  time  of  the  Caesars  With  respect  to 
Cleomenes  it  is  certain  ; as  to  Archelaus  it  is  very 
probable ; as  to  Salpion,  the  contrary  at  least 
cannot  be  demonstrated  ; and  so  as  to  the  rest,  not 
excluding  Athenodorus. 

Herr  Wink  elmarm  shall  be  judge  himself!  But 
I protest  by  anticipation  against  the  converse 
proposition.  If  all  artists  who  have  used  iirolrjae 
belong  to  the  later  epoch,  it  does  not  follow  that  all 
who  have  used  eVoiet  belong  to  the  earlier  period. 
There  may  have  been  among  the  later  artists  some 
who  have  really  been  endowed  with  the  modesty  so 
well  becoming  a great  man,  and  there  may  be  others 
who  have  pretended  to  possess  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


After  the  Laocoon,  I was  most  curious  to  learn 
what  Herr  Winkelmann  would  say  of  the  so-called 
Borghese  gladiator.  I believed  that  I had  made  a 
discovery  with  respect  to  this  statue,  of  which  I 
thought  as  much  as  one  usually  does  of  such 
discoveries. 

I was  only  afraid  that  Herr  Winkelmann  would 
have  anticipated  me.  But  I find  nothing  of  the 
kind  in  his  observations ; and  if  any  one  thing 
more  than  another  could  make  me  distrust  myself, 
it  would  be  that  very  thing,  that  my  apprehension 
was  not  fulfilled. 

Some,  says  Herr  Winkelmann1,  make  a discobolus  of 
this  statue,  that  is,  a man  who  throws  a discus  or  a quoit 
of  metal ; and  this  was  the  opinion  of  the  celebrated  Herr 
von  Stosch,  in  a letter  written  to  me,  but  without 
sufficient  consideration  of  the  attitude  in  which  such  a 
figure  should  be  placed.  For  he  who  is  about  to  throw 
anything  must  draw  his  body  backwards,  and  at  the 
moment  when  the  throw  should  take  place,  the  weight 
lies  upon  the  thigh  on  the  same  side,  and  the  left  leg  is  at 
rest : here,  however,  it  is  the  contrary.  The  whole  figure 
is  thrown  forwards,  and  rests  upon  the  left  thigh,  and  the 
right  leg  is  behind,  stretched  to  the  uttermost.  The  right 
arm  is  modern,  and  they  have  put  a piece  of  a lance  in  his 
hand  ; on  the  left  arm  you  see  the  strap  of  a shield  which 
he  has  holden.  You  observe  that  the  head  and  the  eyes 
are  directed  upwards,  and  that  the  figure  appears  to  be 
defending  itself  with  a shield  from  something  coming  from 
above,  which  makes  it  more  probably  the  attitude  of  a 
soldier  who  has  distinguished  himself  in  a situation  of 
danger.  No  statue  in  Greece  was,  it  may  be  presumed, 
ever  erected  in  honour  of  a gladiator ; and  this  work 
appears  to  he  older  than  the  introduction  of  gladiators 
among  the  Greeks. 


203 


204 


LAOCOON 


A better  judgment  cannot  be  given.  This  statue 
is  no  more  a gladiator  than  a discobolus  ; it  is  really 
the  representation  of  a warrior,  who  has  placed 
himself  in  this  attitude  on  an  occasion  of  peril. 
And  as  Herr  Winkelmann  had  so  happily  discovered 
this,  how  could  he  stop  here  ? How  came  it  not  to 
occur  to  him  that  it  represented  a warrior  who  in 
this  very  attitude  had  prevented  the  entire  de- 
struction of  an  army,  and  to  whom  his  grateful 
country  had  erected  a statue  in  this  very  attitude  ? 

In  a word,  the  statue  is  Chabrias. 

The  proof  is  to  be  found  in  the  following  paper  in 
Nepos,  in  the  life  of  this  generalI  2 

Hie  quoque  in  summis  habitus  est  ducibus,  resque 
multas  memoria  dignas  gessit.  Sed  ex  his  elucet  maxime 
inventum  ejus  in  proelio,  quod  apud  Thebas  fecit,  cum 
Boeotiis  subsidio  venissit.  Namque  in  ea  victoria  fidente 
summo  duce  Agesilao,  fugatis  jam  ab  eo  conductitiis 
catervis,  reliquam  phalangem  loco  vetuit  cedere ; obnixo- 
que  genu  scuto,  projectaque  hasta,  impetum  excipere 
hostium  docuit.  Id  novum  Agesilaus  intuens,  progredi 
non  est  ausus,  suosque  jam  incurrentes  tuba  revocavit. 
Hoc  usque  eo  in  Graecia  fama  celebratum  est,  ut  illo 
statu  Chabrias  sibi  statuam  fieri  voluerit,  quae  publice  ei 
ab  Atheniensibus  in  foro  constituta  est.  Ex  quo  factum 
est,  ut  postea  athletae,  ceterique  artifices  his  statibus 
in  statuis  ponendis  uterentur  in  quibus  victoriam  essent 
adepti 3 

I know  that  readers  will  stand  aloof  for  a moment 
before  they  express  their  assent ; but  I hope  for  a 
moment  only.  The  attitude  of  Chabrias  does  not 
appear  to  be  precisely  the  same  which  we  see  in 
the  Borghese  statue.  The  darted  lance,  projecta 
hastay  is  common  to  both,  but  the  obnixo  genu  scuto 
is  explained  by  commentators  by  obnixo  in  scutum 
objirmato  genu  ad  scutum.  Chabrias  taught  his 
soldiers  how  to  bend  the  knee,  protected  by  the 

shield,  and  behind  it  to  await  the  enemy : the 

statue,  on  the  contrary,  holds  the  shield  on  high. 
But  suppose  the  commentators  are  mistaken  ? And 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


205 


if  the  words  obnixo  genu  scuto  do  not  go  together, 
and  we  ought  to  read  obnixo  genu  by  itself,  and  scuto 
by  itself,  or  together  with  what  follows  projectaque 
hasta  ? Only  make  a single  comma,  and  the  resem- 
blance is  as  perfect  as  possible.  The  statue  is  a 
soldier  qui  obnixo  genu , scuto  projectaque  hasta  impetum 
hostis  excipit : it  shows  what  Chabrias  did,  and  is 
the  statue  of  Chabrias.  That  the  comma  is  really 
wanted  is  proved  by  the  projectd  and  connected  quer 
which,  if  obnixo  genu  scuto  were  taken  together, 
would  be  superfluous,  and  on  this  account  it  is 
actually  omitted  in  some  editions. 

The  form  of  the  letters  of  the  inscription  of  the 
master-artist  agrees  perfectly  with  the  high  an- 
tiquity to  which  this  statue  would  then  belong ; 
and  Herr  Winkelmann  himself  has  from  this  con- 
cluded that  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  present 
statues  in  Rome  on  which  the  name  of  the  artist  is 
written.  I leave  to  his  penetrating  glance  to  decide 
whether,  having  regard  to  the  principles  of  Art,  he 
has  remarked  anything  in  the  statue  which  conflicts 
with  my  opinion.  If  I obtain  his  assent,  I may 
flatter  myself  to  have  given  a better  example,  how 
happily  the  classical  writers  are  illustrated  by  these 
ancient  works  of  Art,  and  how  these  latter  in  their 
turn  throw  light  upon  the  former,  than  is  to  be 
found  in  the  whole  folio  of  Spence. 


CHAPTEE  XXIX 


Herr  Winkelmann,  bringing  immense  stores  of 
reading,  and  the  finest  and  most  various  knowledge 
of  Art  to  his  work,  has  laboured  with  the  noble 
confidence  of  the  ancient  artists,  who  applied  all 
their  industry  to  the  principal  matters,  and  with 
respect  to  accessories,  either  treated  them  with  an 
apparently  studied  neglect,  or  delivered  them  over 
entirely  to  the  first  hand  which  happened  to  present 
itself. 

It  is  no  slight  praise  to  have  only  committed 
such  faults  as  any  one  could  have  avoided.  They 
are  apparent  on  the  first  cursory  reading,  and  if 
they  are  to  be  remarked  upon  at  all,  it  is  only  for 
the  purpose  of  reminding  certain  people,  who  think 
they  only  have  eyes,  that  such  faults  do  not  deserve 
observation. 

In  his  writings  on  the  imitation  of  Greek  works 
of  art  Herr  Winkelmann  has  already  in  some  points 
been  misled  by  Junius.  Junius  is  a very  dangerous 
author ; his  whole  work  is  a Cento ; and  as  he 
always  will  speak  with  the  words  of  the  ancients, 
he  not  unfrequently  applies  passages  in  them  to 
painting  which  in  the  originals  treat  of  anything 
rather  than  painting.  If,  for  example,  Herr 
Winkelmann  wishes  to  teach  us  that  we  can  as 
little  attain  by  the  mere  imitation  of  nature  to  the 
highest  point  in  art  as  we  can  in  poetry,  that  the 
poet  as  well  as  the  painter  must  rather  choose  the 
Impossible,  which  is  probable,  than  the  merely 
Possible  ; he  adds  to  this  proposition  : ‘ Possibility 
and  Truth,  which  Longinus  demands  from  a painter, 
in  opposition  to  the  Incredible  of  the  poet,  may  very 
well  consist  with  this  position’.  This  additional 
206 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


207 


remark  had  much  better  not  have  been  made ; for 
he  shows  us  the  twTo  greatest  critics  in  a state  of 
contradiction,  which  is  wholly  without  foundation. 
It  is  untrue  that  Longinus  has  ever  said  this.  He 
said  something  like  it  about  Eloquence  and  Poetry, 
but  nothing  of  the  sort  about  Poetry  and  Painting  : 

5’  erepbv  n t)  p rjropiKT]  (pavraaia  fiovAerai,  Kal  erepov  i) 
7r apa  TroiTiTcus,  ovk  'a v \ol0ol  are  (he  writes  to  his  Teren- 
tian1)  ovd’  on  rrjs  plv  iu  ir oi7](T€l  reAos  errnv  cKirArj^is,  rrjs 
5’  4v  A 6yois  ivapyeia.  And  again  : Ov  fX7]v  ’ayy a ra  p.ev 
irapa  r o7s  iroiijrats  juvdtKcorepav  *X€l  'r^)v  virepcKirrcocriu’  ws 

€(p7]V  Kal  TTOLVTr)  rb  TTLCTTOP  VlT6paipOV<TaV’  TTjS  5h  pr)TOpiKTlS 

(pauraaias  KaAAicrrou  a el  rb  epirpaKrou  Kal  euaArjOes.  Only 

Junius  substitutes  in  this  place  Painting  for  Elo- 
quence: and  it  is  in  Junius  and  not  in  Longinus 
that  Herr  Winkelmann  has  read2:  ‘Praesertim 
cum  Poeticae  phantasiae  finis  sit  e/c7rA7?£*s,  Pictoriae 
vero,  evapyeia.  Kcti  ra  pev  irapa  ro?s  iroLijra'is , ut  loquitur 
idem  Longinus’.  Yes,  the  words  of  Longinus,  but 
not  the  sense  of  Longinus  ! 

The  same  observation  applies  to  this  passage  : 
‘All  actions’,  he  says,  ‘and  attitudes  of  Greek 
figures  which  are  not  impressed  with  the  character 
of  wisdom,  but  are  too  passionate  and  wild,  are 
obnoxious  to  that  fault  which  the  ancient  artists 
called  Parenthyrsus  ’ 3.  The  ancient  artists  ? for  this 
position  Junius  is  the  only  authority.  For  Paren- 
thyrsus was  a rhetorical  word  of  art,  and  perhaps, 
as  the  passage  in  Longinus  appears  to  inform  us,  is 
only  made  use  of  by  Theodorus4  : To vrcp  irapaKeirai 

rp'irov  n KaKias  eidos  ev  roTs  nadririKols,  oirep  6 Qeobwpos 
irapevQvpaov  eKaAei.  VE crn  5e  iraQos  ’aKaipov  Kal  Kevbv , evQa 

de7  iraOovs'  7)  'aperpov,  %vQa  perpiov  del.  Yes,  I very 
much  doubt  if  this  word  can  generally  be  applied 
to  poetry.  For  in  eloquence  and  poetry  there  is  a 
pathos  which  can  be  carried  to  as  high  a degree  as 
possible  without  becoming  a parenthyrsus,  and  it  is 
only  the  highest  pathos  in  the  most  unsuitable 
place  which  is  a Parenthyrsus.  But  in  painting 
the  highest  pathos  would  always  be  Parenthyrsus, 


208 


LAOCOOH 


even  when  it  may  be  well  excused  by  the  situation 
of  the  person  whom  it  represents.  It  is  probable 
that  various  inaccuracies  to  be  found  in  his  History 
of  Art  originate  entirely  in  the  fact  that  Herr 
Winkelmann,  in  his  haste,  was  minded  to  consult 
Junius  rather  than  the  original  sources  themselves. 
For  example,  when  he  wishes  to  show  by  instances 
that  the  Greeks  especially  esteemed  whatever  was 
excellent  in  any  art  or  work,  and  that  the  best 
workman  in  the  slightest  thing  could  obtain  im- 
mortality for  his  name ; he  cites,  among  other 
examples,  the  following6:  4 We  know  the  name  of 
the  workman  who  made  the  balances  of  the  most 
accurate  kind,  he  was  called  Parthenius’.  Herr 
Winkelmann  must  have  read  the  words  of  Juvenal, 
which  he  invokes  on  this  occasion,  Lances  Farthenio 
factas , only  in  the  catalogue  of  Junius. 

For  if  he  had  looked  at  Juvenal  himself  he  would 
never  have  been  led  astray  by  the  ambiguity  of  the 
word  Lanx , but  would  have  learnt  from  the  context 
that  the  poet  was  not  speaking  of  scales  or  balances, 
but  of  plates  and  dishes.  Juvenal  praises  Catullus 
for  having  imitated,  in  a dreadful  storm  at  sea,  the 
act  of  the  beaver,  which  bites  off  its  secret  parts  in 
order  to  save  its  life  ; and  in  like  manner  he  caused 
his  most  precious  effects  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea, 
in  order  that  he  himself  might  not  perish  with  his 
ship.  He  describes  these  precious  effects,  and  says, 
amongst  other  things 

Ille  nec  argentum  dubitabat  mittere,  lances 
Parthenio  factas,  urnae  cratera  capacem 
Et  di^num  sitiente  Pholo,  vel  conjure  Fnsci. 

Adde  et  bascaudas  et  mille  escaria,  multuin 
Caelati,  biberet  quo  callidus  emptor  Olynthi  6 

Lances , which  are  here  placed  amongst  cups  and 
jugs,  what  else  can  they  be  but  plates  and  dishes? 
And  what  else  did  Juvenal  mean  than  that  Catullus 
ordered  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea  his  whole  silver 
dinner-service,  which  also  contained  plates  of  the 
curious  workmanship  of  Parthenius.  Parthenius, 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


209 


says  the  old  scholiast,  caelatoris  nomen.  But  when 
Grangaeus  in  his  commentaries  adds  to  this  name, 
sculptor  de  quo  Plinius,  he  must  have  written  this 
down  at  haphazard,  for  Pliny  mentions  no  artist  of 
this  name.  ‘Yes’,  continues  Herr  Winkelmann, 
4 the  name  of  the  currier,  as  we  should  call  it,  who 
made  the  leathern  shield  of  Ajax  has  come  down  to 
us  \ But  he  cannot  have  taken  this  fact  from  the 
authority  to  which  he  refers  his  reader,  from  the 
life  of  Homer,  by  Herodotus,  for  there  the  lines  out 
of  the  Iliad  are  cited  in  which  the  poet  gives  the 
name  of  Tychius  to  this  worker  in  leather ; but  at 
the  same  time  it  is  expressly  said  that  there  was 
a worker  in  leather  with  whom  Homer  was  ac- 
quainted, and  towards  whom  he  wished  to  show 
his  friendship  and  gratitude  by  the  introduction 
of  his  name  into  his  poem7:  ’AireSoj/ce  x^PLV  K°d 

Tux'icp  <tkvt€i,  ts  ede^aro  avrbu  kv  red  N kcp  reix^h  irpoakX- 
dovra  irpbs  to  (Tkvtciop,  kv  rots  €7r <Eai  Kardfev^as  ev  rrj  ’iXiadi 
To7ffde' 

Afas  5’  kyyvQev  ^A0e,  <pepcov  aaKOS,  rjvre  Trvpyctv, 
Xd\K€ov,  eTTrafioeioi',  '6  oi  T v\tos  Ka/j.e  revx^v 
^kvtot6/j.ccv  o'x’  apiaros , e/TA rj  ivi  olxia  vcllodv  8 

Here  is  exactly  the  contrary  of  what  Herr 
Winkelmann  was  so  certain,  the  name  of  the  cur- 
rier who  made  the  shield  of  Ajax  was  already  in 
the  time  of  Homer  so  forgotten  that  the  poet  took 
the  liberty  of  introducing  an  entirely  strange  name 
in  lieu  of  it.  There  are  several  other  small  faults, 
faults  of  memory,  or  which  relate  to  things  which 
he  only  brings  forward  as  accidental  illustrations. 

It  was  Hercules  and  not  Bacchus  of  whom 
Parrhasius  boasts  that  he  had  seen  him  in  the  very 
form  in  which  he  painted  him  Tauriscus  did  not 
come  from  Rhodes,  but  from  Tralles,  in  Lydia10. 
Antigone  is  not  the  first  tragedy  of  Sophocles11  ; but 
I must  restrain  myself  from  placing  such  trifles  as 
these  on  a heap. 

It  is  true  that  no  one  would  think  I did  so  from 

p 


210 


LAOCOON 


a desire  of  malignant  criticism,  but  those  who  know 
my  high  esteem  for  Herr  Winkelmann  might  con- 
sider it  as  crocylegmus  12. 

N.B. — Here  ends  the  first  and  only  completed  part  of 
the  Essay  on  Laocoon,  as  it  was  first  published  ; but  after 
the  death  of  Lessing,  among  his  papers  were  discovered 
various  notes,  for  a second  part,  and  perhaps  a third  part. 
They  were  in  a rough  state,  but  contain  many  valuable 
and  pregnant  suggestions.  I have  translated  nearly  all, 
certainly  all  the  most  important  of  them,  in  the  Appendix. 


NOTES 


INTRODUCTION 

1  The  word  should  be  ‘ the  material 5 ; the  German  word 
is  ‘ Gegenstanden ’,  that  is,  ‘the  objects’,  and  Lessing 
mistook  the  meaning  of  *'T which  certainly  means  ‘ the 
material  \ The  mistake,  however,  in  no  way  affects  the 
reasoning  or  theory  of  the  writer.  R.  P. 

Plutarch,  Comm.  Bellone  an  Pace  clariores  fuerint  Athe - 
nienses,  v.  366,  ed.  Reiske.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  I 

1 Von  der  Nachahmung  der  griechischen  Werke  in  der 
Mahler ei  und  Bildhauerkunst,  s.  21,  22. 

2 This  poem  of  Sadolet  is  printed  at  length  in  a later 
part  of  this  essay  : but,  according  to  Sadolet,  Laocoon — 

‘ . dolore  aeri  et  laniatu  irapulsus  acerbo 
Dat  gemitum  ingentem  \ 

It  is  true  he  adds  a little  later- — 

‘ Ferre  nequit  rabiem  et  de  vulnere  murmur  anhelum  est  R.  P. 

3 Pliny  makes  emphatic  mention  of  him,  Nat.  Mist., 
Ixxxv — xl.  30  : ‘ Est  nomen  et  Heraclidi  Macedoni.  Initio 
naves  pinxit : captoque  rege  Perseo  Athenas  commigravit : 
ubi  eodem  tempore  erat  Metrodorus  pictor,  idemque  philo- 
sophus,  magnae  in  utraque  scientia  auctoritatis C. 
Plinius  Secundus,  author  of  the  Historia  Naturalise  born 
a.  d.  23,  died  a.d.  79.  Uncle  of  C.  Plinius  Caecilius 
Secundus,  born  a.d.  61,  the  writer  of  the  ten  books  of 
Epistolary  the  time  of  whose  death  is  doubtful.  R.  P. 

4 Brumoy,  Thd&tre  des  Grecs , t.  11,  p.  89. 

5 Brumoy,  Pierre,  a distinguished  member  of  the 
Society  of  Jesuits.  Of  all  his  works  the  Tht&tre  des  Grecs 

211 


212 


LAOCOON 


won  for  him  the  greatest  reputation  as  a scholar.  Born 
1688,  died  1742.  R.  P. 

6 Iliad , E.  y.  343,  'H  Be  fie ya  la\f/ov<ra. 

7 Iliad , E.  v.  859. 

8 Th.  Bartolinus  de  Causis  contemptae  a Danis  adhuc 
gentilibus  Mortis , cap.  i.  He  was  born  1659.  Professor 
of  History  and  Civil  Law  at  Copenhagen ; wrote  several 
Latin  treatises  besides  the  one  referred  to.  Died  1690. 
In  this  work,  dc  Causis , Gray  found  the  Norse  Ballad  from 
which  he  took  his  Descent  of  Odin.  R.  P. 

9 Lessing  perhaps  had  in  his  mind  the  Philoctetes  which 
he  so  often  quotes  and  so  justly  admired  : — 

’Ev  7r erpoKTi  7 rerpov  eieTpificov  fi6\is 
3'E<pr\v>  &(pavrov  (pus.  Pliiloc.  296.  R.  P. 

10  Diad,  H.  421. 

11  Odyss.  A.  195. 

12  Chateaubrun,  Jean-Baptiste  Vivier  de  Chateaubrun, 
born  at  Angouleme  in  1686  ; his  tragedy  of  Mahomet  Second 
was  acted  in  1714,  and  was  well  received  ; but  he  pro- 
duced no  other  play  till  1754,  Les  Troyennes , which  was 
successful  in  1755.  Eleven  years  before  the  appearance 
of  the  Laocoon , he  produced  PliilocUte , which  was  acted 
seven  times.  He  died  at  the  age  of  89,  in  Paris.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  II 

1 Antiochus,  Antholog.  lib.  ii,  cap.  4.  Hardouin  on 
Pliny,  lib.  xxxv,  sect.  36,  p.  m.  698,  ascribes  this  Epigram 
to  a certain  Pison.  But  among  all  the  Greek  epigram- 
matists there  is  no  one  of  that  name.  Hardouin,  Jean,  a 
French  jesuit  of  extraordinary  erudition,  antiquary, 
chronologist,  naturalist,  commentator,  among  other  works 
he  was  the  author  of  Chronologic  Eepliquee  par  les  Medailles  ; 
he  was  very  fond  of  paradoxes,  and  in  an  epitaph  com- 
posed for  him  was  styled  Hominum  paradoxotatos.  Bom 
1646,  died  1729.  R.  P. 

2 ‘ Namque  subtexi  par  est  minoris  pietura  celebres  in 
penicillo  e quibus  fuit  Pyreicus  : arte  paucis  proferendus  : 


NOTES 


213 


proposito  nescio  an  destruxerit  se : quoniam  humilia 
quidem  secutus  humilitatis  summam  adeptus  est  gloriam. 
Tonstrinas  sutrinasque  pinxit  et  asellos  et  opsonia  ac 
similia : ob  hoc  cognominatur  Rhyparographos,  in  iis 
consummatae  voluptatis.  Quippe  ea  pluris  veniere  quam 
maximae  multorum  Plin.,  Hist.  Nat.,  xxxv,  cap.  x. 
R.  P. 

3 Therefore  pictures,  according  to  Aristotle’s  Precept, 
should  not  be  shown  to  young  persons,  in  order  to  keep 
their  imagination,  as  much  as  possible,  pure  from  all 
pictures  of  what  is  ugly.  (Pol. , 1,  viii,  c.  5. ) Herr  Boden 
wished  to  read  Pausanias’  instead  of  Pauson,  because  it 
was  known  that  the  former  had  painted  unchaste  pictures 
(De  Umbra  Poetica,  Comm.  I,  xiii.),  as  if  one  had  first  to 
learn  from  this  philosophical  legislator  that  youth  should 
be  removed  from  such  lascivious  provocations.  He  had 
only  to  compare  the  well-known  passage  in  the  Poetics 
(cap.  ii.)  in  order  to  withdraw  his  conjecture.  There  are 
commentators  (e.  g.  Kuhn,  upon  Aelian  Var.,  Hist.,  1.  iv, 
c.  3),  who  think  that  the  distinction  which  Aristotle 
makes  between  Polygnotus,  Dionysius,  and  Pauson  was 
founded  on  this  supposed  fact  that  Polygnotus  painted 
gods  and  heroes,  Dionysius  men,  and  Pauson  animals. 
They  all  painted  the  human  figure,  and  that  Pauson  once 
painted  a horse  does  not  prove  that  he  was  a painter  of 
animals  as  Herr  Boden  imagines.  The  degrees  of  the 
beautiful  which  they  gave  to  their  human  figures  decided 
their  work,  and  it  was  solely  on  this  account  that  Diony- 
sius only  painted  men,  and  obtained  before  all  others  the 
appellation  of  4 the  man  painter  ’,  because  he  was  too 
servile  a follower  of  nature,  and  never  could  i;aise  himself 
to  that  ideal,  below  which  to  have  painted  gods  and 
heroes  would  have  been  an  offence  against  religion.  The 
passage  in  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle,  2,  § 2,  is  axnrep  ol 
ypacpeis'  UoXvyvcoTos  fxev  yap  Kpeirrovs,  Tlavcroov  de  x€Lpovs, 
A Lovvcnos  5e  o/jlolovs.  R.  P. 

4 Aristoph.,  Pint.,  602  ; Acharn.,  854. 

5 Plinius,  1.  xxx,  s.  37. 

6 De  Picturd  Vet.,  L 2,  c.  4,  § 1.  See  preface  for  some 
account  of  Junius.  R.  P. 

7 I venture  to  doubt  whether  this  word  has  been  under- 


214 


LAOCOON 


stood.  The  explanation  is  as  follows : Count  Ghezzi 
(Pietro  Leone)  was,  as  his  father  and  grandfather  had 
been,  a painter  and  engraver  of  the  Roman  School ; taught 
by  his  father  (Giuseppe),  who  died  at  Rome  1721,  and 
who  was  the  son  of  another  Ghezzi  (Sebastiano).  P.  L. 
Ghezzi  excelled  in  caricature ; he  is  said  to  have  com- 
posed no  less  than  400,  of  cardinals,  princes,  ambassadors, 
and  remarkable  persons.  He  was  born  in  1674  ; died  in 
1755,  at  Rome.  R.  P. 

8 Plin.,  Hist.  Nat.,  xxxiv,  s.  4:  4 Olympica : ubi  om- 
nium qui  vicissent  statuas  dicari  mos  erat,  eorum  vero 
qui  ter  ibi  superavissent  ex  membris  ipsorum  similitudine 
expressa  quas  iconicas  vocant  ’.  R.  P. 

9 It  is  a mistake  to  consider  a serpent  as  the  sign  of  a 
medical  Deity  only;  Justinus  Martyr  ( Apolog .,  ii,  55, 
ed.  Sylburg)  says  expressly,  napb.  n ravr\  ruv  vopu^o^vcov 
nap’  vjxiv  6<eq> v,  v(pis  ffvfifioXov  [x4ya  Ka\  /xvarnpiov  avaypd- 
(perai ; and  it  would  be  easy  to  produce  an  array  of 
monumental  records  in  which  snakes  accompany  Deities 
which  have  not  the  least  relation  to  health. 

4 All  the  different  Arts  which  I have  hitherto  mentioned 
as  taking  their  rise  from  the  imagination,  have  this  in 
common,  that  their  primary  object  is  to  please5,  D. 
Stewart,  Phil,  of  Human  Mind , i,  366.  4 Pleasure  is  the 

end  of  his  (the  poet’s)  art,  and  the  more  numerous  the 
sources  of  it  which  he  can  open  the  greater  will  be  the 
effect  produced  by  the  efforts  of  his  genius’,  lb.,  367. 
R.  P. 

10  Let  any  .one  go  through  all  the  works  of  Art  which 
Pliny,  Pausanias,  and  others  mention  ; let  him  survey 
the  ancient  statues,  bassi-relievi,  and  pictures  at  present 
known  to  us,  and  no  Fury  will  be  found.  I speak  of 
those  figures  which  belong  rather  to  Allegory  than  to 
Art,  such  as  we  find  especially  on  coins.  Therefore, 
Spence,  who  must  have  Furies,  would  rather  borrow  them 
from  coins.  (Sequini  Numism.,  p.  178.  Spanheim  de 
Praeft,  Numism.  Dissert. , xiii,  p.  639.  Les  Cisars  de  Julien , 
par  Spanheim,  p.  48. ) These  introduce  them  by  an  intel- 
lectual feat  into  a work  in  which  they  certainly  are  not. 
He  says,  in  Poly  metis  (Dial. , xvi,  p.  272)  : 

Tho’  Furies  are  very  uncommon  in  the  works  of  the  antient  artists, 
yet  there  is  one  subject  in  which  they  are  generally  introduced  by 


NOTES 


215 


them.  What  I mean  is  the  death  of  Meleager  ; in  the  relievi  of  which 
they  are  often  represented  as  encouraging  or  urging  Althaea  to  burn 
the  fatal  brand ; on  which  the  life  of  her  only  son  depended.  Even  a 
woman’s  resentment  you  see  could  not  go  so  far,  without  a little  help 
of  the  devil.  In  a copy  of  one  of  these  relievi  published  in  the 
Admiranda,  there  are  two  women  standing  by  the  altar  with  Althaea ; 
who  are  probably  meant  for  Furies  in  the  original ; (for  who  but  Furies 
would  assist  at  such  a sacrifice?)  tho’  the  copy  scarce  represents  them 
horrid  enough  for  that  character  : but  what  is  most  to  be  observed  in 
that  piece  is  a round,  or  medallion  about  the  midst  of  it,  with  the 
evident  head  of  a Fury  upon  it.  This  might  be  what  Althaea  addressed 
her  prayers  to,  whenever  she  wished  ill  to  her  neighbours  ; or  when- 
ever she  was  going  to  do  any  very  evil  action : Ovid  introduces  her 
as  invoking  the  Furies  on  this  occasion  in  particular  and  makes  her 
give  more  than  one  reason  for  her  doing  so. 

By  such  devices  one  can  make  anything  out  of  anything. 

‘ Who  ’,  says  Spence,  ‘ but  Furies  could  have  assisted  at 
such  an  action  ? I answer,  the  maid-servant  of  Althaea 
who  kindled  the  fire  must  keep  it  up.  Ovid  says  (Metam. , 
viii,  460,  461), 

Protulit  hunc  (stipitem)  taedasque  in  fragmina  poni 
Imperat  et  positis  inimicos  admovet  ignes. 

Dryden’s  translation,  as  given  in  Garth’s  Ovid , is  : 

This  brand  she  now  produced  ; and  first  she  strows 
The  hearth  with  heaps  of  chips,  and  after  blows. 

The  taedae  of  this  kind,  long  pieces  of  resinous  wood, 
which  the  ancients  used  for  torches,  were  actually  carried 
by  two  persons  in  their  hands,  and  one  of  them,  as  is 
clear  from  the  attitude,  had  broken  a piece  off.  On  the 
boss,  in  the  middle  of  the  work,  I do  not  at  all  recognise 
a Fury.  Without  doubt  it  must  be  the  head  of  Meleager 
(Metam.,  viii,  515). 

Inscius  atque  absens  flamma  Meleagros  ab  ilia 
Uritur : et  caecis  torreri  viscera  sentit 
Ignibus : et  magnos  superat  virtute  dolores. 

J ust  then  the  hero  cast  a doleful  cry, 

And  in  those  absent  flames  began  to  fry ; 

The  blind  contagion  raged  within  his  veins, 

But  he  with  manly  patience  bore  his  pains. 

The  artist  makes  use  of  him  as  if  to  help  the  transition 
into  the  following  Epoch  of  the  same  history  which 
exhibits  the  dying  Meleager  in  close  proximity  to  it. 
What  Spence  calls  the  Furies  Montfaucon  calls  the  Fates 
(Antiq.  Expl. , t.  1,  p.  162),  excepting  the  head  on  the  boss 
which  he  also  considers  to  be  a Fury.  Bellori  himself 


216 


LAOCOON 


(Admirand,  tab.  77)  leaves  it  undecided  whether  they  are 
Furies  or  Parcae.  This  c or  ’ suffices  to  show  that  they 
are  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  The  remaining  part  of 
even  Montfaucon’s  explanation  is  deficient  in  accuracy. 
The  woman  who  leans  upon  her  elbows  near  the  bed,  he 
should  have  called  Cassandra  and  not  Atalanta.  Atalanta 
is  the  figure,  which,  with  her  back  turned  to  the  bed,  sits 
in  an  attitude  of  sorrow.  The  artist  has,  with  much 
intelligence,  turned  her  away  from  the  family,  because 
she  was  only  the  beloved  one,  and  not  the  wife  of  Meleager, 
and  her  distress  over  a misfortune,  of  which  she  has  been 
the  innocent  cause,  must  exasperate  the  relations. 

11  Plinius,  1.  xxxv,  s.  10  : ‘ Cum  moestos  pinxisset  omnes, 
praecipue  patruum  et  tristitiae  omnem  imaginem  con- 
sumpsisset,  patris  ipsius  vultum  velavit,  quern  digne  non 
poterat  ostendere 

12  c Summi  maeroris  acerbitatem  arte  exprimi  non  posse 
eonfessus  est’,  Valerius  Maximus,  1.  viii,  c.  11. 

13  The  words  from  which  the  picture  is  supposed  to  be  taken  are 
these : Agamemnon  saw  Iphigenia  advance  towards  the  fatal  altar,  he 
groaned,  he  turned  aside  his  head,  he  shed  tears , and  covered  his  face 
with  his  robe. 

Falconet  does  not  at  all  acquiesce  in  the  praise  that  is  bestowed  on 
Timanthes ; not  only  because  it  is  not  his  invention,  but  because  he 
thinks  meanly  of  this  trick  of  concealing,  except  in  instances  of  blood, 
where  the  objects  would  be  too  horrible  to  be  seen;  ‘but’,  says  he, 
‘ in  an  afflicted  father,  in  a thing,  in  Agamemnon,  you,  who  are  a painter, 
conceal  from  me  the  most  interesting  circumstance,  and  then  put  me  off 
with  sophistry  and  a veil.  You  are’  (he  adds)  ‘a  feeble  painter,  with- 
out resource;  you  do  not  know  even  those  of  your  art.  I care  not 
what  veil  it  is,  whether  closed  hands,  arms  raised,  or  any  other  action 
that  conceals  from  me  the  countenance  of  the  hero.  You  think  of 
veiling  Agamemnon ; you  have  unveiled  your  own  ignorance.  A 
painter  who  represents  Agamemnon  veiled  is  as  ridiculous  as  a poet 
would  be,  who,  in  a pathetic  situation,  in  order  to  satisfy  my  expecta- 
tions and  rid  himself  of  the  business,  should  say,  that  the  sentiments 
of  his  hero  are  so  far  above  whatever  can  be  said  on  the  occasion,  that 
he  shall  say  nothing 

To  what  Falconet  has  said,  we  may  add,  that  supposing  this  method 
of  leaving  the  expression  of  grief  to  the  imagination,  to  be,  as  it  was 
thought  to  be,  the  invention  of  the  painter,  and  that  it  deserves  all 
the  praise  that  has  been  given  it,  still  it  is  a trick  that  will  serve  but 
once ; whoever  does  it  a second  time  will  not  only  want  novelty,  but 
be  justly  suspected  of  using  artifice  to  evade  difficulties.  If  difficulties 
overcome  make  a great  part  of  the  merit  of  Art,  difficulties  evaded 
can  deserve  but  little  commendation.  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  vol.  i,  p.  462, 
Eighth  Discourse.  R.  P. 

14  Antiquit . Explic .,  t.  i,  p.  50. 


NOTES 


217 


15  For  instance,  he  thus  describes  the  degrees  of  sorrow 
actually  expressed  by  Timanthes : ‘ Calchantem  tristem, 
moestum  Ulyssem,  clamantem  Ajacem,  lamentantem 
Meneiaum’.  The  screaming  Ajax  must  have  been  a 
hideous  figure,  and  as  neither  Cicero  nor  Quintilian  men- 
tion him  in  their  description  of  the  picture,  I am  rather 
disposed  to  consider  it  an  addition  furnished  out  of  his 
own  head. 

16  Bellorii  Admiranda,  tab.  ii,  12.  Bellori  was  an 
Italian  antiquary,  born  1615,  died  1696,  wrote  a great 
number  of  treatises,  among  them  ‘ Admiranda  Romano  rum 
antiquitatum  ac  veteris  sculptura  vestigio  a Petro  Santi 
Bartoli  delineanda  cum  notis5,  Jo.  P.  Bellori:  Rome, 
1695,  in  fol.  Dryden,  in  his  Parallel  of  Poetry  and.  Paint- 
ing, speaks  of  him  as  ‘a  most  ingenious  author  yet 
living’.  R.  P. 

17  Plin.,  xxxiii,  s.  8. 

18  ‘ Eundem  namely  Myro  (we  read  in  Pliny,  xxxiii, 
s.  8),  ‘vicit  et  Pythagoras  Leontinus,  qui  fecit  stadio- 
dromon  Aftylon,  qui  Olympiae  ostenditur : et  Libyn 
puerum  tenentem  tabulam,  eodem  loco,  et  mala  ferentem 
nudum.  Syracusis  autem  claudicantem ; cujus  hulceris 
dolorem  sentire  etiam  spectantes  videntur’.  Let  us 
examine  the  last  words  more  closely.  Is  he  not  clearly 
speaking  of  a person  who,  on  account  of  his  painful  cry,  is 
generally  known?  ‘cujus  hulceris,  etc.’ ; and  this  ‘cujus’ 
must  refer  to  the  ‘claudicantem’,  and  the  ‘ claudicantem’ 
perhaps  to  the  still  further  removed  ‘ puerum  \ Nobody 
has  a better  right  than  Philoctetes  to  be  well  known  on 
account  of  such  a copy.  I read  therefore  instead,  ‘ claudi- 
cantem, Philoctetem ’,  or,  at  least,  I contend  that  the 
latter  word  has  been  expelled  by  the  former  like-sounding 
word,  and  we  must  read  the  two  together,  4 claudicantem 
Philoctetem  ’.  Sophocles  makes  him  arl^ov  tear’  avdyKav 
€ pTr  € tv  t and  his  lameness  must  be  caused  by  his  walking 
with  little  confidence  on  his  wounded  foot. 

‘ A painter  must  compensate  the  natural  deficiencies  of 
his  Art.  He  has  but  one  sentence  to  utter,  but  one 
moment  to  exhibit  ’,  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  Fourth  Discourse, 
vol.  i,  348.  ‘ What  is  done  by  painting  must  be  done  at 

one  blow : curiosity  has  received  at  once  all  the  satis- 
faction it  can  have’,  id.,  Eighth  Discourse,  p.  439. 


218 


LAOCOCXNT 


‘ These  important  moments  then  (Fuseli  says)  which  ex- 
hibit the  united  exertion  of  form  and  character  in  a single 
object  or  in  participation  with  collateral  beings,  at  once , 
and  which  with  equal  rapidity  and  pregnancy  give  us  a 
glimpse  of  the  past,  and  lead  our  eye  to  what  follows, 
furnish  the  true  materials  of  those  technic  powers  which 
select  direct  the  objects  of  imitation  to  their  centre’, 
Fuseli,  Life , etc.,  Lecture  iii,  pp.  135-6.  4 For  of  necessity 
(Harris  says)  every  picture  is  a punctum  temporis  or 
instant  ’,  Discourse  on  Music , Painting , and  Poetry , p.  63. 
Sir  Joshua  wrote  after  Harris,  and  before  the  publication 
of  the  Laocoon.  R.  P. 

The  references  to  the  books  and  sections  in  Pliny  are 
not  always  correct.  I have  made  them  so.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  III 

1 According  to  Mr.  De  Quincey’s  paraphrase,  ‘essen- 
tially evanescent’,  on  which  words  he  has  a long  note,  the 
earlier  part  of  which  is  as  follows  : 

‘ Essentially  evanescent.  The  reader  (he  says)  must  lay  especial 
stress  on  the  word  essentially , because  else  Lessing  will  he  chargeable 
with  a capital  error.  For  it  is  in  the  very  antagonism  between  the 
transitory  reality  and  the  non-transitory  image  of  it,  reproduced  by 
painting  or  sculpture,  that  one  main  attraction  of  those  arts  is 
concealed.  The  shows  of  Nature,  which  we  feel  and  know  to  be 
moving,  unstable,  and  transitory,  are  by  these  arts  arrested  in  a single 
moment  of  their  passage,  and  frozen  as  it  were  into  a motionless 
immortality.  This  truth  has  been  admirably  drawn  into  light,  and 
finely  illustrated,  by  Mr  Wordsworth,  in  a Sonnet  on  the  Art  of  Land- 
scape-Painting ; in  which  he  insists  upon  it,  as  the  great  secret  of  its 
power,  that  it  bestows  upon 

One  brief  moment,  caught  from  fleeting  time, 

The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  Eternity. 

Now,  in  this  there  might  seem  at  first  glance  to  be  some  opposition 
between  Mr  Wordsworth  and  Lessing ; but  all  the  illustrations  of  the 
Sonnet  show  that  there  is  not.  For  the  case  is  this  : In  the  succession 
of  parts  which  make  up  any  appearance  in  nature,  either  these  parts 
simply  repeat  each  other  (as  in  the  case  of  a man  walking,  a river 
flowing,  etc.),  or  they  unfold  themselves  through  a cycle,  in  which 
each  step  effaces  the  preceding  (as  in  the  case  of  a gun  exploding, 
where  the  flash  is  swallowed  up  by  the  smoke  effaced  by  its  own 
dispersion,  etc.).  Now,  the  illustrations  in  Mr  Wordsworth’s  poem 
are  all  of  the  former  class  ; as  the  party  of  travellers  just  entering  the 
wood,  but  not  permitted,  by  the  good  considerate  painter,  absolutely 
to  enter  the  wood,  where  they  must  be  eternally  hidden  from  us  ; so 


NOTES 


219 


again  with  regard  to  the  little  boat,  if  allowed  to  unmoor  and  go  out  a 
ftshing,  it  might  be  lying  hid  for  hours  under  the  restless  glory  of  the 
sun,  but  now  we  all  see  it  “for  ever  anchored  in  its  rocky  bed”,  and 
so  on ; where  the  continuous  self-repeating  nature  of  the  impression, 
together  with  its  indefinite  duration,  predispose  the  mind  to  contem- 
plate it  under  a form  of  unity,  one  mode  of  which  exists  in  the  eternal 
Now  of  the  painter  and  the  sculptor.  But  in  successions  of  the  other 
class,  where  the  parts  are  not  fluent,  as  in  a line,  but  angular,  as  it 
were,  to  each  other,  not  homogeneous  but  heterogeneous,  not  con- 
tinuous but  abrupt,  the  evanescence  is  essential;  both  because  each 
part  really  has , in  general,  but  a momentary  existence,  and  still  more 
because,  all  the  parts  being  unlike,  each  is  imperfect  as  a represent- 
ative image  of  the  whole  process ; whereas,  in  trains  which  repeat  each 
other,  the  whole  exists  virtually  in  each  part,  and  therefore  reciprocally 
each  part  will  be  a perfect  expression  of  the  whole.  Now,  whatever  is 
essentially  imperfect,  and  waiting,  as  it  were,  for  its  complement,  is 
thereby  essentially  evanescent,  as  it  is  only  by  vanishing  that  it  makes 
room  for  this  complement.  Whilst  objecting,  therefore,  to  appear- 
ances essentially  evanescent,  as  subjects  for  the  artist,  Lessing  is  by 
implication  suggesting  the  same  class  from  which  Mr  Wordsworth  has 
drawn  his  illustrations  ’.  De  Quincey’s  Works , vol.  xii,  p.  253,  note. 

2 Philippus,  Anthol lib.  xv,  cap.  9,  ep.  10: 

A lei  yap  Stif/as  fSpefpeoov  <povov  rj  rls  ’1 7]G(cv 

A evrepos,  7]  T\avK ^ rls  ird\i  aot  irpScpaais 

*E ppe  Kal  iv  Kir]p(p  TraiSoKrdpe. 

Philippus  of  Thessalonica  probably  lived  in  the  time  of 
Trajan,  wrote  a great  many  epigrams  himself,  and  compiled 
one  of  the  ancient  Greek  Anthologies.  R.  P. 

3 Vita  Apoll .,  lib.  ii,  cap.  22.  There  appear  to  have 
been  three  persons  called  Philostratus ; the  most  celebrated 
wrote  the  life  of  Apollonius  of  Tyana,  which  was  divided 
into  eight  books ; it  was  entitled  ‘ r a is  rbv  Tvavea 
’ATro\A(i)i'iov\  Apollonius  was  a Pythagorean  philosopher, 
born  at  Tyana  four  years  b.c.  He  wrote  several  works, 
and  was  believed  to  possess  magical  or  supernatural 
powers.  His  life  by  Philostratus  is  said  to  be  full  of 
fables  and  incongruities.  Philostratus  was  alive  a.d. 
244-9,  probably  born  a.d.  182;  he  wrote  various  other 
works,  of  which  the  ‘ ei/coVes,  imagines 5 is  reckoned  to  be 
the  most  pleasing  ; it  was  an  explanation  of  the  subject 
of  Painting  while  he  lived  at  Naples.  R.  P. 


220 


LAOCOON 


CHAPTER  IV 

1 Lessing  observes,  in  a long  note  to  this  passage,  that 
when  the  Chorus  considers  the  misery  of  Philoctetes  in 
this  combination,  it  is  his  helpless  solitude  which  more 
especially  touches  them.  In  these  words  we  hear  the 
social  Greeks.  I have,  however,  my  doubts  as  to  one  of 
the  passages  belonging  to  this  subject.  It  is  this,  v,  691- 
698  : 

Exposed  to  the  inclement  skies, 

Deserted  and  forlorn  he  lies  ; 

No  friend  nor  fellow  mourner  there, 

To  sooth  his  sorrows  and  divide  his  care.  Franklin. 

"lv  avrbs  tt p'ffovpos,  ovk  txw 

Ovde  Tii v iyx&puv, 

KaKoye'iropa  nap*  <5  arovov  avTirvirov [Sapvfip&T  onroK\av<T- 
eiev  ai/JLarr]p6u. 

Lessing  discusses  various  translations  of  these  lines,  and 
contends  that  the  comma  should  be  placed  after  Kcucoyei- 
rova,  and  taken  away  from  eyx&poov,  and  the  meaning 
would  be,  notwithstanding  these  later  translations  to  the 
contrary,  not  ‘an  evil  neighbour’,  but  ‘a  neighbour  to 
his  woe’;  as  Kaieoixavris  does  not  mean  ‘an  evil  prophet’, 
but  ‘a  prophet  of  evil’  ; KaKSrexvos,  not  ‘a  bad  clumsy 
workman’,  but  ‘a  worker  of  bad  things’.  Referring  to 
one  of  the  Latin  translations  Lessing  says,  ‘If  this 
translation  be  right,  then  the  Chorus  says  the  strongest 
thing  that  can  ever  be  said  in  praise  of  human  society  ; 
the  wretched  one  has  no  man  near  him,  he  knows  of  no 
friendly  neighbour’.  Thomson  had  perhaps  this  passage 
before  his  eyes,  when  he  makes  Melisander A,  left  by  some 
ruffians  in  a desert  island,  say  : 

Cast  on  the  wildest  of  the  Cyclad  isles, 

Where  never  human  foot  had  marked  the  shore  ; 

These  ruffians  left  me,  yet  believe  me,  Areas, 

Such  is  the  rooted  love  we  bear  mankind ; 

All  ruffians  as  they  were  I never  heard 
A sound  so  dismal  as  their  parting  oars. 

To  him  also  the  society  of  the  ruffians  was  preferable  to 

1 Agamemnon , Act  ii.  Lessing  took  this  reference  to  Thomson  from 
Franklin’s  translation  of  Philoctetes.  See  Franklin’s  note  to  p.  134. 
R.  P. 


NOTES 


221 


none.  A grand  and  excellent  meaning  ! were  it  only  cer- 
tain that  Sophocles  had  really  so  expressed  himself.  But 
I must  reluctantly  confess  that  I find  in  him  nothing  of 
the  kind.  As  Lessing’s  amendment  of  the  punctuation, 
and  consequently  of  the  meaning,  has  been  adopted  in  all 
subsequent  good  editions  of  Sophocles,  it  is  unnecessary 
to  continue  the  translation  of  this  very  learned  note, 
except  to  add  that  he  approves  of  Franklin’s  translation. 
R.  P. 

2 Mercure  de  France,  Avril  1755,  p.  177.  Lessing’s 
Laocoon  was  published  in  1766.  R.  P. 

3 In  that  part  of  the  account  given  by  Thucydides  of 
the  Athenian  expedition  to  Sicily,  in  which  he  narrates 
the  last  naval  action  before  the  mouth  of  the  harbour  of 
Syracuse,  and  describes  the  diversity  of  passions  with 
which  both  armies  beheld  the  action.  4 During  this 
doubtful  conflict  on  the  water’,  he  says,  4 the  army  on  the 
shore  of  both  sides  had  their  struggle  and  contention  of 
mind  ’ : then  the  misery  of  those  who  saw  their  side 
worsted  is  described  ; and  then  he  says,  4 others  that 
looked  on  some  part  where  the  fight  was  equal,  because  the 
contention  continued  so  as  they  could  make  no  judgment 
as  to  it,  moving  their  todies  in  their  extreme  fear  in  sym- 
pathy icith  their  thoughts , passed  their  time  as  ill  as  the 
worst  of  them  ’.  Hobbes.  clWoi  de  kcu  tt pbs  avr'iir a\6v  tl 
tt]s  vav/mxias  aundovres,  8*a  to  aKplrcas  £vi tt)s  ayiXXrjs, 
ical  to?  s cr  do  yaa  iv  avrois  i era  rr}  8 o | ? j n t ep  id  eca  s 
h,vv  arc  ov  ev  ovt  e s,  eu  ro?s  xaAe7rccTaTa  diriyov.  vii,  71. 

R.  P. 

4 Smith’s  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments , part  I,  sect,  ii, 
pp.  50,  51.  In  a subsequent  part  of  the  same  essay,  the 
writer  says, 

In  some  of  the  Greek  tragedies  there  is  an  attempt  to  excite  com- 
passion by  the  representation  of  the  agonies  of  bodily  pain.  Philoctetes 
cries  out  and  faints  from  the  extremity  of  his  suffering.  Hippolytus 
and  Hercules  are  both  introduced  as  expiring  under  the  severest  tor- 
tures, which  it  seems  even  the  fortitude  of  Hercules  was  incapable  of 
supporting.  In  all  these  cases,  however,  it  is  not  the  pain  which 
interests  us,  but  some  other  circumstance.  It  is  not  the  sore  foot,  but 
the  solitude  of  Philoctetes  which  affects  us  and  diffuses  over  that 
charming  tragedy  that  romantic  wildness  which  is  so  agreeable  to  the 
imagination.  The  agonies  of  Hercules  and  Hippolytus  are  interesting 
only  because  we  foresee  that  death  is  to  be  the  consequence.  If  those* 
heroes  were  to  recover,  we  should  think  the  representation  of  their 


222 


LAOCOON 


sufferings  perfectly  ridiculous.  What  a tragedy  would  that  be  of  which 
the  distress  consisted  in  a colic ! Yet  no  pain  is  more  exquisite. 
These  attempts  to  excite  compassion  by  the  representation  of  bodily 
pain  may  be  regarded  as  among  the  greatest  breaches  of  decorum  of 
which  the  Greek  theatre  has  set  the  example.  Ib.  part  I,  sect,  ii,  pp. 
53,  54.  R.  P. 

5 The  passage  to  which  Lessing  refers,  but  does  not 
fully  cite,  is  as  follows  : 

Sed  yidesne  poetae  quid  mali  afferant ! Lamentantes  inducunt  for- 
tissimos viros : molliunt  animos  nostros  ita  deinde  dulces  ut  non 
legantur  modo  sed  etiam  ediscantur  sic  ad  malam  domesticam  discipli- 
nam,  vitamque  umbratilem  et  delicatam  cum  accesserunt  etiam  poetae, 
nervos  omnis  virtutis  elidunt,  recte  igitur  a Platone  educantur  ex  ea 
civitate  quam  finxit  ille  cum  mores  optimos  et  optimum  Reipublicis 
statum  exquireret.  Tusc .,  lib.  1,  2,  11.  R.  P. 

6 I suppose  Lessing  refers  to  Ctesias  of  Ephesus,  an 
epic  poet,  who  wrote  the  Uepa^is.  His  age  is  unknown, 
but  he  is  mentioned  by  Plutarch,  Be  Fluv .,  18.  It.  P. 

7 Aristotle  illustrates  a proposition  in  his  Ethics  by 
reference  to  this  conduct  of  Neoptolemus.  He  says  : 

‘ Again,  if  constancy  makes  you  abiding  in  every  opinion, 
it  may  be  bad,  as  if  it  be  in  a false  opinion  ; and  if  incon- 
stancy makes  you  shifting  from  every  opinion,  there  will 
be  a good  inconstancy ; as  with  the  Neoptolemus  of 
Sophocles  in  the  Philoctetes  ; for  he  is  to  be  commended, 
in  that  he  abided  not  in  those  resolutions  to  which  he 
was  persuaded  by  Ulysses,  being  angered  at  the  cheat 
which  had  been  practised  on  him’.  Aristot.  E.N. , vii,  2 : 
VE tl  el  Traarr)  56£r)  e/m/jLeveriKbv  ttoici  tj  eyKpareia,  (pavArj,  oiov 
el  leal  rrj  if/evdeV  zeal  el  Tracnrjs  dbj-ris  7}  aiepacrla,  earai  ns 
enroubaia  aKpacria’  oiov  6 l£o(poK\eovs  NeoTrroAe^aos  ev  rep  $i\ok- 
TrjT77‘  eTraiverbs  yap,  ovk  e/jcfievcov  oTs  eireiaOr]  inrb  rod 
’05 vacrews,  dia  rb  XvireiaQai  ij/evddjuevos.  P. 

8 Act.  ii,  sc.  3: — {De  mes  deguisemens  que  penserait 
Sophie?5  says  the  son  of  Achilles.  If  this  were  not  a 
fact,  it  would  appear  incredible  ; it  would  be  thought  a 
preposterous  caricature  of  French  Classical  tragedy.  R.  P. 

9 Track,  v.  1088,  9 ; #<rris  Soare  tt apepevos  & ePpvxa  KXaicvv. 

10  Garrick  was  still  in  all  his  glory  when  the  Laocoon  was 
written  ; he  left  the  stage  ten  years  later,  1776  ; died  in 
June,  1779.  This  homage  of  Lessing  is  remarkable.  It.  P. 

11  The  word  used  by  Lessing  is  generally  mistranslated 


NOTES 


223 


as  { acting  ’,  or 2 *  4 * * * 8 la  mimique  ’ ; but  the  paraphrase  of  De 
Quincey,  ‘subsidiary  aids  in  its  mechanic  apparatus’, 
conveys  the  true  meaning  of  the  word,  which,  I think, 
has  in  every  edition  of  Lessing  a slight  misprint.  It 
stands  Ska-ropoeie ; it  should  be  Skam>poeie,  from  the 
Greek  2 KTjvoTrot'ta , c tabernaculorum  constructio  ’ ; see 
Stephen’s  Thesaurus  on  the  word,  citing  Polyb.  6-28,  3. 
It  is  well  known  that  the  Greeks  took  great  pains  with  the 
mechanical  apparatus  which  was  to  introduce  a Deity 
on  the  stage  and  perform  other  offices.  0e5s  curb  p^x^vris 
enKpaveis  was  a proverb.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  V 

1 Topographia  Urbis  Romae , lib.  iv,  cap.  14.  et  quam- 
quam  hi  (Agesander  et  Polydorus  et  Athenodorus  Rhodii) 
ex  Virgilii  descriptione  hanc  statuam  formavisse  vider- 
entur,  &c, 

Marliani  Bartolomeo,  an  Italian  antiquary,  born  at 
Milan  towards  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  died  about 
1560.  His  life  was  chiefly  occupied  with  archaeological 
researches,  amongst  which  was  Topographia  Urbis  Romae. 

R.  P. 

2 Suppl.  aux  Ant.  Expliq t.  i,  p.  242,  ‘II  semble 

qu’Agesandre  Polydore  et  Athenodore,  qui  en  furent  les 

ouvriers,  ayant  travaille  comme  a,  l’envie,  pour  laisser  un 

monument,  qui  rdpondit  a l’incomparable  description  qu’a 
fait  Virgile  de  Laocoon 

Montfaucon  was  a very  learned  Benedictine  of  St. 
Maur ; born  1655,  died  1741.  His  work,  UAntiquite 
expliquee  et  represents  en  Figures , was  published  at  Paris 

1724,  in  five  folio  volumes,  to  which  a supplement  of  as 
many  volumes  has  been  added.  R.  P. 

8 Saturnalia , 1.  v,  c.  2 : 

Quae  Virgilius  traxit  a Graecis,  dicturumne  me  putatis  quae  vulgo 
nota  sunt?  quod  Theocritum  sibi  fecerit  pastoralis  operis  autorein, 
ruralis  Hesiodum  ? et  quod  in  ipsis  Georgicis  tempestatis  serenitatisque 
signa  de  Arati  Phaenomenis  traxerit?  vel  quod  eversionein  Trojae  cum 
Sinone  suo  et  equo  ligneo,  caeterisque  omnibus,  quae  librum  secundum 
faciunt,  a Pisandro  pene  ad  verbum  transcripserit  ? qui  inter  Graecos 
poetas  emmet  opere,  quod  a nuptiis  Jovis  et  Junonis  incipiens  universas 


224 


LAOCOON 


historias,  quae  mediis  omnibus  saeculis  usque  ad  aetatem  ipsius  Pisan- 
dri  contigerunt,  in  unam  seriem  coactas  redegerit,  et  unum  ex  diversis 
hiatibus  temporum  corpus  effecerit?  in  quo  opere  inter  historias 
caeteras  interitus  quoque  Trojae  in  hunc  modum  relatus  est.  Quae 
fi  deliter  Maro  interpretando  fabricatus  est  sibi  Iliacae  urbis  ruinam. 
Sed  et  haec  et  talia  ut  pueris  decantata  praetereo. 

Macrobius  Ambrosius  Aurelius  Theodosius,  a Latin 
writer  of  the  fifth  century.  His  chief  work  was  Saturna- 
liorum  Conviviorum , libri  vii.  ; a collection  of  discussions 
of  the  Saturnalia,  the  Roman  Deities,  and  the  Poetry  of 
Virgil.  He  probably  was  a Greek,  and  lived  in  the  age  of 
Honorius  and  Theodosius.  R.  P. 

4 Quintus  Calaber,  or  Quintus  Smyrnaeus  (for  the  name 

of  Calaber  seems  to  have  been  given  him  because  a copy  of 
his  poem  was  first  discovered  in  a convent  of  Calabria), 
wrote  a poem  on  things  TrapaXenropievwv  praeter- 

missorum  ab  Homero.  His  exact  date  is  unknown,  but 
probably  he  lived  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  century  after 
Christ.  His  poem  was  in  fourteen  books  ; the  subject, 
the  events  of  the  Trojan  War  from  the  death  of  Hector  to 
the  return  of  the  Greeks  ; the  12th  and  13th  books  refer 
to  the  wooden  horse.  It  is  probable  that  his  poem  was 
founded  on  those  of  Aretinus  and  Lesches.  Smith’s  G-. 
and  R.  Biog. , iii,  637,  8.  The  edition  of  Q.  Calaber,  which 
I have  used,  is  one  published  at  Leyden,  1734.  R.  P. 

5 Barali'p .,  lib.  xii,  v.  398-408  ; v.  439-474. 

6 Or  rather  a serpent,  for  Lycophron  appears  to  have 
only  accepted  one  : 

kcl\  Tread  6 ftp  got  os  Troptceeos  v^aovs  dnrAas. 

Porces,  6 Uo  preys , was  the  name  of  Lycophron’s  serpent  ; 
y Xapifioia,  Charibaea,  was  the  name  of  the  other. 
A vK&<ppovos  ’AAefavdpa,  ed.  Lipsiae,  1830,  p.  84,  1.  347. 
See  note  : IT opreys  real  Xapifiola  ovo/uara  orpecov  ol  TrMvGavres 
ire  tgov  KaXiBucau  vyGGuv  riXQov  els  T polav  kcl\  di6<p9e7pav  rovs 
7r aldas  AaoKoovros,  k.t.X.  See,  too,  p.  308,  the  Greek 
paraphrase ; and  p.  467,  Scaliger’s  Latin  translation, 
under  the  name  of  Cassandra , 1.  347.  The  poem  is  a long 
vapid  Iambic  monologue  of  1474  verses,  in  which  Cassan- 
dra prophesies  the  fall  of  Troy.  Lycophron  was  a 
celebrated  grammarian  and  poet ; he  lived  at  Alexandria 
under  Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  who  died  b.c.  40.  R.  P. 


NOTES 


225 


7 I remember  that  the  picture  of  which  Eumolpus  gives 
an  account  in  Petronius  1 may  be  cited  against  me.  He 
represents  the  destruction  of  Troy,  and  especially  the 
history  of  Laocoon,  as  fully  and  completely  as  Virgil ; and 
in  a certain  gallery  at  Naples,  in  which  it  stood,  there 
were  other  ancient  pictures  by  Zeuxis,  Protogenes,  Apelles, 
so  there  is  a presumption  in  favour  of  this  picture  also 
being  considered  an  old  Greek  picture.  But  I must  be 
allowed  not  to  consider  a romance  poet  as  an  historian. 
This  gallery,  and  this  picture,  and  this  Eumolpus,  have, 
according  to  all  probability,  never  existed  except  in  the 
imagination  of  Petronius.  Nothing  more  clearly  betrays 
their  entire  invention  than  the  obvious  traces  of  an  almost 
schoolboy’s  imitation  of  Virgil’s  description.  Virgil  says 
( Aen . ii,  199-224)  : 

Hie  aliud  majus  miseris  multoque  tremendum 
Objicitur  magis,  atque  improvida  pectora  turbat. 

Laocoon,  ductus  Neptuno  sbrte  sacerdos, 

Sollemnes  taurum  ingentem  mactabat  ad  aras. 

Ecce  autem  gemini  a Tenedo  tranquilla  per  alta 
(Horresco  referens)  inmensis  orbibus  angues 
Incumbunt  pel  ago,  pariterque  ad  litora  tendunt ; 

Pectora  quorum  inter  fluctus  arrecta,  jubaeque 
Sanguineae  superant  undas ; pars  cetera  pontum 
Pone  legit  sinuatque  inmensa  volumine  terga  ; 

Fit  sonitus  spurn  ante  salo.  Jamque  arva  tenebant, 
Ardentesque  oculos  suftecti  sanguine  et  igni, 

Sibila  lambebant  linguis  vibrantibus  ora. 

Diffugimus  visu  exsangues.  Illi  agmine  ceito 
Laocoonta  petunt ; et  primum  parva  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implicat  et  miseros  morsu  depascitur  artus  ; 

Post  ipsum,  auxilio  subeuntem  ac  tela  ferentem, 

Corripiunt,  spirisque  iigant  ingentibus  ; et  jam 
Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  altis. 

Ille  simul  manibus  tendit  divellere  nodos, 


i ‘ Petronius  is  described  by  Tacitus  (Ann.  xvi,  18,  19)  as  the  most 
accomplished  voluptuary  at  the  court  of  Nero.  His  days  were  passed  in 
slumber,  his  nights  in  visiting  and  revelry.  But  he  was  no  vulgar 
spendthrift,  no  dull  besotted  debauchee.  An  air  of  refinement  per- 
vaded all  his  extravagancies  ; with  him  luxury  was  a serious  study,  and 
he  became  a proficient  in  the  science.  The  careless,  graceful  ease, 
assuming  almost  the  guise  of  simplicity,  which  distinguished  all  his 
words  and  actions,  was  the  delight  of  the  fashionable  world  ; he  gained 
by  polished  and  ingenious  folly  an  amount  of  fame  which  others  often 
fail  to  achieve  by  a long  career  of  laborious  virtue  ’.  Smith’s  Diet. 
His  title  of  ‘ arbiter  ’ comes  from  the  expression  ‘ elegantiae  arbiter’  in 
Tacitus.  R.  P. 


Q 


226 


LAOCOON 


Ferfusus  sanie  vittas  atroque  veneno, 

Clamores  simul  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit : 

Qualis  mugitus,  fugit  cum  saucius  aram 
Taurus  et  ineertam  excussit  cervice  securim. 

A greater  omen,  and  of  worse  portent, 

Did  our  unwary  minds  with  fear  torment,  V 
Concurring  to  produce  the  dire  event.  J 
Laocoon,  Neptune’s  priest  by  lot  that  year, 

With  solemn  pomp  then  sacrificed  a steer ; 

When  (dreadful  to  behold !)  from  sea  we  spied ’’j 
Two  serpents,  ranked  abreast,  the  seas  divide,  V 
And  smoothly  sweep  along  the  swelling  tide.  J 
Their  flaming  crests  above  the  waves  they  show ; 

Their  bellies  seem  to  burn  the  seas  below ; 

Their  speckled  tails  advance  to  steer  their  course, 

And  on  the  sounding  shore  the  flying  billows  force 
And  now  the  strand,  and  now  the  plain  they  held. 

Their  ardent  eyes  with  bloody  streaks  were  filled ; 

Their  nimble  tongues  they  brandished  as  they  came 
And  licked  their  hissing  jaws,  that  sputtered  flame. 

We  fled  amazed  : their  destined  way  they  take, 

And  to  Laocoon  and  his  children  make  ; 

And  first  around  the  tender  boys  they  wind, 

Then  with  their  sharpened  fangs  their  limbs  and  bodies  grind. 
The  wretched  father,  running  to  their  aid 
With  pious  haste,  but  vain,  they  next  invade ; 

Twice  round  his  waist  their  winding  volumes  rolled  ; 

And  twice  about  his  gasping  throat  they  fold. 

The  priest  thus  doubly  choked — their  crests  divide, 

And  towering  o’er  his  head  in  triumph  ride. 

With  both  his  hands  he  labours  at  the  knots ; 

His  holy  fillets  the  blue  venom  blots  ; 

His  roaring  fills  the  flitting  air  around. 

Thus  when  an  ox  receives  a glancing  wound, 

He  breaks  his  bands,  the  fatal  altar  flies, 

And  with  loud  bellowings  breaks  the  yielding  skies. 

Dryden’s  Virgil , Aeneis  II. 

And  Eumolpus  (of  whom  it  may  be  predicated  that  he 
has  shared  the  fate  of  all  impromptu  poets,  whose  memory 
has  always  as  great  a part  in  their  verses  as  their 
imagination)  says  : 

Ecce  alia  monstra.  Celsa  qua  Tenedos  mare 
Dorso  repellit,  tumido  consurgunt  freta, 

Undaque  resUltat  scissa  tranquillo  minor, 

Qualis  silenti  nocte  remorum  sonus 
Longe  refertur  cum  premunt  classes  mare, 

Pulsumque  marmor  abiete  imposita  gemit, 

Respicimus,  angues  orbibus  geminis  ferunt 
Ad  saxa  fluctus  : tumida  quorum  pectora, 

Rates  ut  altae,  lateribus  spumas  agunt : 

Dant  caudae  sonitum  ; liberae  ponto  jubae 
Coruseant  luminibus,  fulmineum  jubar 


NOTES 


227 


Incendit  aequor,  sibilisque  undae  tremunt. 

Stupuere  mentes.  Infulis  stabant  sacri 
Phrygioque  cultu  gemina  nati  pignora 
Laocoonte,  quos  repente  tergoribus  ligant 
Angnes  corrusci : parvulas  illi  manus 
Ad  ora  referunt : neuter  auxilio  sibi, 

Uterque  fratri ; transtulit  pietas  vices, 

Morsque  ipsa  miseros  mutuo  perdit  metu. 

Accumulate  ecce  liberum  funus  parens, 

Infirmus  auxiliator ; invadunt  virum 

Jam  morte  pasti,  membraque  ad  terram  trahunt. 

Jacet  sacerdos  inter  aras  victima. 

Yol.  ii,  p,  28,  Brescia,  1807  ; Satire  de  Tito  Petroneo 
Arbitro,  Latin  and  Italian.  R.  P. 

The  principal  features  in  these  passages  are  the  same, 
and  in  various  places  the  same  words  are  used.  But  these 
are  trifles  which  are  at  once  apparent  to  us.  There  are 
other  marks  of  imitation  which  are  finer,  but  not  less 
certain.  If  the  imitator  be  a man  who  has  any  confidence 
in  himself,  he  rarely  imitates  without  wishing  to  em- 
bellish ; and,  if  this  embellishment  is  in  his  opinion 
successful,  he  is  fox  enough  to  sweep  away  with  his  tail 
the  footsteps  which  would  have  betrayed  the  way  by 
which  he  came.  It  is  by  this  very  foolish  desire  to 
embellish,  and  this  care  to  appear  original,  that  he  is 
detected.  For  his  embellishment  is  nothing  but  exaggera- 
tion and  unnatural  refinement.  Virgil  says,  * sanguineae 
jubae\  Petronius , ‘juba  luminibus  eoruscant’.  Virgil , 

‘ ardentes  oculos  suffecti  sanguine  et  igni  Petronius , 

‘fulmineum  jubar  incendit  aequor5.  Virgil , ‘fit  sonitus 
spumante  salo  \ Petronius , ‘ sibilis  undae  tremunt  ’.  And 
so  the  imitator  always  goes  on  from  the  Great  to  the 
Monstrous  ; from  the  Wonderful  to  the  Impossible.  The 
boys  coiled  round  by  the  serpents  are  in  Virgil  a by-work 
(Trdpcpyov),  which  he  adds  to  the  main  work  by  a few 
significant  touches,  in  which  we  are  conscious  of  nothing 
but  their  helplessness  and  their  lamentation.  Petronius 
paints  elaborately  this  by-work,  and  makes  two  heroes 
out  of  these  boys  : — 

Neuter  auxilio  sibi 
Uterque  fratri  transtulit  plus  vices 
Morsque  ipsa  miseros  mutuo  perdit  metu. 

Who  expects  from  men,  from  children,  this  self-abase- 
ment? How  much  better  the  Greek  knew  human  nature 
(Quintus  Calaber,  lib.  xii,  x,  459,  61),  who,  on  the  appear- 


228 


LAOCOON 


ance  of  these  terrible  serpents,  makes  the  mother  forget 
her  children,  so  entirely  was  each  person  occupied  in 
saving  his  own  life. 

ivQa  ywcuK€s 

O IpLGO&V,  Kal  7 TQV  TLS  icoV  67T€\^ (TCLTO  TeKVOW, 

A vt^j  aXevo/jLevr]  (TTvyepbv  / xopov . 

As  a general  rule  the  imitator  endeavours  to  conceal 
himself  by  throwing  a new  light  upon  objects,  and  by 
placing  those  which  in  the  original  are  in  shadow  in  the 
light,  and  vice  versa.  Virgil  takes  pains  to  make  clearly 
visible  the  great  size  of  the  serpents,  because  upon  their 
size  the  probability  of  the  events  which  follow  depend  : 
the  tumultuous  rushing  noise  with  which  they  come  is 
only  an  accessory  circumstance,  and  intended  to  excite  a 
more  vivid  idea  of  their  size.  Petronius,  on  the  contrary, 
makes  the  accessory  the  principal ; describes  the  tumult- 
uous rushing  noise  with  all  conceivable  extravagance,  and 
so  much  forgets  the  size  that  we  can  only  infer  it  from 
the  noise.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  he  could  have 
fallen  into  this  clumsy  defect,  if  he  had  only  painted  from 
his  own  imagination,  and  had  not  had  a model  before 
him,  which  he  wished  to  copy,  but  did  not  wish  to  reveal 
that  he  copied. 

So  it  is  that  we  can  with  certainty  pronounce  every 
poetical  picture,  overloaded  with  little  traits  and  wanting 
in  great  ones,  to  be  an  unsuccessful  imitation,  however 
many  prettinesses  it  may  have,  and  whether  we  know  the 
original  or  not. 

8 Suppl.  aux  Antiq .,  Expl.  t.  i,  p.  243 : ‘II  y a quelque 
petite  difference  entre  ce  que  dit  Virgile,  et  ce  que  le  marbre 
represente.  II  semble,  selon  ce  que  dit  le  Po&te,  que  les 
serpens  quitterent  les  deux  enfans  pour  venir  entortiller 
le  pere,  au  lieu  que  dans  ce  marbre  ils  liert  en  meme  terns 
les  enfans  et  leur  pere  \ 

9 Their  destined  way  they  take, 

And  to  Laocoon  and  his  children  make  ; 

And  first  around  the  tender  hoys  they  wind, 

Then  with  their  sharpened  fangs  their  limhs  and  bodies 
grind.  Dryden.  K.  P. 

10  Donatus,  iElius,  a renowned  grammarian  and  rhe- 
torician. Servius  constantly  refers  to  him.  He  must 
have  composed  a commentary  on  Virgil.  He  taught  at 


NOTES  229 

Rome  in  the  middle  of  the  fourth  century,  and  was  the 
preceptor  of  St.  Jerome.  R.  P. 

11  Donatus,  ad  v.  227,  lib.  ii,  Aen. : ‘ Mirandum  non 
est  clypeo  et  simulacri  vestigiis  tegi  potuisse,  quos  supra 
et  longos  et  validos  dixit,  et  multiplici  ambitu  circumde- 
disse  Laocoontis  corpus  ac  liberorum  et  fuisse  superfluam 
partem  \ It  seems  to  me  that  as  to  these  words,  miran- 
dum non  est , either  you  must  leave  out  the  word  non , or 
that  there  is  something  wanting  in  the  end  of  the  second 
proposition.  For  as  the  serpents  were  so  extraordinarily 
large,  it  is  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  they  could  be 
concealed  under  the  shield  of  the  goddess,  if  this  shield 
was  not  itself  very  large,  and  did  not  belong  to  a colossal 
figure ; and  that  was  what  the  wanting  part  of  the 
second  proposition  must  have  stated,  or  the  non  has  no 
sense. 

12  Shakespeare  knew  this  : describing  Gloster’s  death, 
he  says : — 

But  see  his  face  is  black,  and  full  of  blood, 

His  eyeballs  further  out  than  when  he  lived, 

Staring  full  ghastly  like  a strangled  man  : 

His  hair  uprear’d,  his  nostrils  stretched  with  struggling ; 

His  hands  abroad  displayed , as  one  who  grasp'd 
And  tugg’d  for  life,  and  was  by  strength  subdued. 

Hen.  VI.  Part  ii.  Act  3,  sc.  2.  R.  P. 

13  With  both  his  hands  he  labours  at  the  knots. 

Aen.  ii,  Dryden.  R.  P. 

14  Twice  round  his  waist  their  winding  volumes  rolled, 

And  twice  about  his  gasping  throat  they  fold ; 

The  priest  thus  doubly  choked,  their  crests  divide, 

And  towering  o’er  his  head  in  triumph  ride. 

Aen.  ii,  Dryden.  R.  P. 

15  Of  which  the  Holy  Family  by  RafFaello  in  the  Munich 
Gallery  is  a striking  example.  R.  P. 

16  In  the  fine  edition  of  Dryden’s  English  Virgil  (Lon- 
don, 1697,  in  grand  folio).  And  yet  this  gives  the 
windings  of  the  serpents  round  the  body  only  once,  and 
has  not  brought  them  round  the  neck  at  all.  If  so 
moderate  an  artist  deserves  any  exculpation,  the  only 
one  that  can  be  made  is  that  the  engraving  ought  only 
to  be  considered  as  an  illustration  of  a book,  and  not  as  a 
work  of  art  on  its  own  account. 


230  LAOCOON 

17  This  is  the  opinion  of  De  Piles,  in  his  remarks  upon 
Du  Fresnoy,  v.  120 : 

Remarquez  s’il  vous  plait,  que  les  Draperies  tendres  et  legeres 
n’etant  donnees  qu’au  sexe  feminin,  les  anciens  sculpteurs  ont  evite 
autant  qu’ils  ont  pu,  d’habiller  les  figures  d’hommes  ; parcequ’ils  ont 
pense,  comme  nous  l’avons  d6ja  dit,  qu’en  sculpture  on  ne  pouvait 
imiter  les  6toffes  & que  les  gros  plis  faisaient  un  mauvais  effet.  II  y a 
presque  autant  d’exemples  de  cette  verite,  qu’il  y a parmi  les  antiques 
de  figures  d’hommes  nuds.  J e rapporterai  seulement  celui  du  Laocoon, 
lequel  selon  la  vrai  semblance  devrait  etre  vetu.  En  effet,  quelle 
apparence  y-a-t’il  qu’un  fils  de  Roi,  qu’un  Pretre  d’ Apollon  se  trouvat 
tout  nud  dans  la  ceremonie  actuelle  d’un  sacrifice;  car  les  serpens 
passerent  de  l’lsle  de  Tenedos  au  rivage  de  Troie  & surprirent  Laocoon 
& ses  fils  dans  le  temps  meme  qu’il  sacrifiait  a Neptune  sur  le  bord  de 
la  mer,  comme  le  marque  Virgile  dans  le  second  livre  de  son  Eneide. 
Cependant  les  artistes,  qui  sont  les  auteurs  de  ce  bel  ouvrage  ont  bien 
vu,  qu’ils  ne  pouvaient  pas  leur  donner  de  vetemens  convenables  a 
leur  qualite,  sans  faire  comme  un  amas  de  pierres,  dont  la  masse 
ressembleroit  a un  rocher,  au  lieu  de  trois  admirables  figures,  qui  ont 
ete  & qui  sont  toujours  l’admiration  des  si^cles.  C’est  pour  cela  que 
de  deux  inconveniens,  ils  ont  jug£  celui  des  draperies  beaucoup  plus 
facheux,  que  celui  d’aller  contre  la  verite  meme. 

18  Lessing  does  not  mean,  I think,  as  sometimes  sup- 
posed, the  hand  of  a slave,  but  the  hand  which  is  the 
servant  of  the  body.  So  Jeremy  Taylor  speaks  of  4 the 
discerning  head  and  the  servile  feet,  the  thinking  heart 
and  the  working  hand  \ Lady  Carbery’s  Fun.  Sermon. 
R.  P. 

19  ‘ His  holy  fillets  the  blue  venom  blots  \ Dryden. 
R.  P. 

20  Reason  must  ultimately  determine  our  choice  on 
every  occasion  ; but  this  reason  may  still  be  exerted 
ineffectually  by  applying  to  taste  principles  which,  though 
right  as  far  as  they  go,  yet  do  not  reach  the  object.  Ho 
man,  for  instance,  can  deny  that  it  seems  at  first  view 
very  reasonable  that  a statue  which  is  to  carry  down  to 
posterity  the  resemblance  of  an  individual,  should  be 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  in  the  dress  which  he 
himself  *wore  ; this  would  certainly  be  true,  if  the  dress 
were  part  of  the  man  ; but  after  a time,  the  dress  is  only 
an  amusement  for  an  antiquarian  ; and  if  it  obstructs  the 
general  design  of  the  piece,  it  is  to  be  disregarded  by  the 
artist.  Common  sense  must  here  give  way  to  a higher 
sense.  In  the  naked  form,  and  in  the  disposition  of  the 
drapery,  the  difference  between  one  artist  and  another  is 
principally  seen.  But  if  he  is  compelled  to  exhibit  the 


NOTES 


231 


modern  dress,  the  naked  form  is  entirely  hid,  and  the 
drapery  is  already  disposed  by  the  skill  of  the  tailor. 
Were  a Phidias  to  obey  such  absurd  commands,  he  would 
please  no  more  than  an  ordinary  sculptor ; in  the  inferior 
parts  of  every  art,  the  learned  and  the  ignorant  are  nearly 
upon  a level.  These  were  probably  among  the  reasons 
that  induced  the  sculptor  of  that  wonderful  figure  of 
Laocoon  to  exhibit  him  naked,  notwithstanding  he  was 
surprised  in  the  act  of  sacrificing  to  Apollo,  and  conse- 
quently ought  to  have  been  shown  in  his  sacerdotal 
habits,  if  those  greater  reasons  had  not  preponderated. 
Art  is  not  yet  in  so  high  estimation  with  us,  as  to  obtain 
so  great  a sacrifice  as  the  ancients  made,  especially  the 
Grecians,  who  suffered  themselves  to  be  represented 
naked,  whether  they  were  generals,  law-givers,  or  kings. 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Lit.  Works , vol.  i,  Discourse  vii, 
pp.  419,  420. 

21  Here,  He  Quincey  rightly  observes,  is  a singular  specimen  of 
logic.  Necessity  invented  clothes;  and,  therefore,  Art  can  have 
nothing  to  do  with  drapery.  On  the  same  principle,  Art  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  architecture.  . . . 

Necessity  invented  dress,  and  to  a certain  extent  the  same  necessity 
continues  to  preside  over  it  ; a necessity,  derived  from  climate  and 
circumstances,  dictates  a certain  texture  of  the  dress ; a necessity, 
derived  from  the  human  form  and  limbs,  dictates  a certain  arrange- 
ment and  corresponding  adaptation.  But  thus  far  dress  is  within  the 
province  of  a mechanic  art.  Afterwards— and  perhaps  in  a very 
genial  climate,  not  afterwards  but  originally— dress  is  cultivated  as 
an  end  per  se,  both  directly  for  its  beauty,  and  as  a means  of  suggest- 
ing many  pleasing  ideas  of  rank,  power,  youth,  sex,  or  profession. 
Cultivated  for  this  end,  the  study  of  drapery  is  a fine  art ; and  a 
draped  statue,  is  a work  not  in  one,  but  in  two  departments  of  art. 
Neither  is  it  true,  that  the  sense  of  necessity  and  absolute  limitation 
is  banished  from  the  idea  of  a fine  art.  On  the  contrary,  this  sense  is 
indispensable  as  a means  of  resisting  (and,  therefore,  realizing)  the 
sense  of  freedom  ; the  freedom  of  a fine  art  is  found  not  in  the  absence 
of  restraint,  but  in  the  conflict  with  it  ’.  He  Quincey’s  Works&vol. 
xii,  sect,  vi,  note  to  p.  273.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  VI 

1 Maffei,  Richardson,  and  lately  Herr  von  Hugedorm 
( Reflections  on  Painting , p.  37  ; Richardson,  TraiU  de  la 
Peinture , t.  iii,  p.  513).  De  Fontaines  does  not  deserve  to 
be  added  to  these  men.  It  is  true  that  he  maintains,  in 
observations  accompanying  his  translation  of  Virgil,  that 


232 


LAOCOON 


the  poet  had  this  group  in  his  eye  ; but  he  is  so  ignorant 
that  he  declares  it  to  be  a work  of  Phidias. 

2 Painting,  having  the  eye  for  its  organ,  cannot  be  conceived  to 
imitate,  but  through  the  media  of  visible  objects.  And  farther,  its 
mode  of  imitating  being  always  motionless,  there  must  be  subtracted 
from  these  the  medium  of  motion.  It  remains,  then,  that  colour  and 
figure  are  the  only  media  through  which  painting  imitates. 

Music,  passing  to  the  mind  through  the  organ  of  the  ear,  can  imitate 
only  by  sounds  and  motions. 

Poetry,  having  the  ear  also  for  its  organ,  as  far  as  words  are  con- 
sidered to  be  no  more  than  mere  sounds,  can  go  no  farther  in  imitating, 
than  may  be  performed  by  sound  and  motion.  But  then,  as  these  its 
sounds  stand  by  compact  for  the  various  ideas  with  which  it  is  fraught, 
it  is  enabled  by  this  means  to  imitate  as  far  as  language  can  express ; 
and  that,  it  is  evident,  will,  in  a manner,  include  all  things.’  Harris, 
Discourses , etc.,  ch.  i,  pp.  57,  58.  R.  P. 

3 I can  cite  nothing  in  this  respect  more  decisive  than 
the  poem  of  Sadolet.  It  is  worthy  of  an  old  poet,  and  as 
it  may  well  supply  the  place  of  an  engraving,  I think  it 
right  to  insert  it  here  at  length. 

De  Laocoontis  Statua  Jacobi  Sadolet  is  Carmen. 

Ecce  alto  terrae  e cumulo,  ingentisque  ruinae 
Visceribus,  iterum  reducem  longinqua  reduxit 
Laocoonta  dies  ; aulis  regalibus  olim 
Qui  stetit,  atque  tuos  ornabat,  Tite,  penates. 

Divinae  simulacrum  artis,  nec  docta  vetustas 
Nobilius  spectabat  opus,  nunc  celsa  revisit 
Exemptum  tenebris  redivivae  moenia  Romae. 

Quid  primum  summumve  loquar?  miserumne  parentem 
Et  prolem  geminam  ? an  sinuatos  flexibus  angues 
Terribili  aspectu  ? caudasque  irasque  draconum 
Vulneraque  et  veros,  saxo  moriente,  dolores  ? 

Horret  ad  haec  animus,  mutaque  ab  imagine  pulsat 
Pectora.,  non  parvo  pietas  commixta  tremori. 

Prolixum  bini  spiris  glomerantur  in  orbem 
Ardentes  colubri  et  sinuosis  orbibus  errant, 

Ternaque  multiplici  constringunt  corpora  nexu. 

Vix  oculi  sufferre  valent,  crudele  tuendo 
Exitium,  casusque  feros  : micat  alter,  et  ipsum 
Laocoonta  petit,  totumque  infraque  supraque 
Implicat  et  rabido  tandem  ferit  ilia  morsu. 

Connexum  refugit  corpus,  torquentia  sese 
Membra,  latusque  retro  sinuatum  a vulnere  cernas. 

Ille  dolore  acri,  et  laniatu  impulsus  acerbo, 

Dat  gemitum  ingentem,  crudosque  evellere  dentes 
Connixus  laevam  impatiens  ad  terga  Chelydri 
Objicit : intendunt  nervi,  collectaque  ab  omni 
Corpore  vis  frustra  summis  conatibus  instat. 

Ferre  nequit  rabiem,  et  de  vulnere  murmur  anhelum  est. 


NOTES 


233 


At  serpens  lapsu  crebro  redeunte  subintrat 
Lubricus,  intortoque  ligat  genua  infima  nodo. 

Absistunt  surae,  spirisque  prementibus  arctum 
Crus  tumet,  obsepto  turgent  vitalia  pulsu, 

Liventesque  atro  distendunt  sanguine  venas. 

Nee  minus  in  natos  eadem  vis  effera  saevit 
Implexuque  angit  rapido,  miserandaque  membra 
Dilacerat : jamque  alterius  depasta  cruentum 
Pectus,  suprema  genitorem  voce  cientis, 

Circumjectu  orbis,  vaiidoque  volumine  fulcit. 

Alter  adhuc  nullo  violatus  corpora  morsu, 

Dum  parat  adducta  caudam  divellere  planta, 

Horret  ad  aspectum  miseri  patris,  haeret  in  illo 
Et  jam  jam  ingentes  fletus,  lacrymasque  cadentes 
Anceps  in  dubio  retinet  timor.  Ergo  perenni 
Qui  tantum  statuistis  opus  jam  laude  nitentes, 

Artifices  magni  (quanquam  et  melioribus  actis 
Quaeritur  aeternum  nomen,  multoque  licebat 
Clarius  ingenium  venturae  tradere  famae) 

Attamen  ad  laudem  quaecunque  oblata  facultas 
Egregium  hanc  rapere,  et  summa  ad  fastigia  niti. 

Vos  rigidum  lapidem  vivis  animare  figuris 
Eximii,  et  vivos  spiranti  in  marmore  sensus 
Inserere,  aspicimus  motumque  iramque  doloremque, 

Et  pene  audimus  gemitus  : vos  extulit  olim 
Clara  Rhodos,  vestrae  jacuerunt  artis  honores 
Tempore  ab  immenso  quos  rursum  in  luce  secunda 
Roma  videt,  celebratque  frequens : operisque  vetusti 
Gratia  parta  recens.  Quanto  praestantius  ergo  est 
Ingenio,  aut  quovis  extendere  fata  labore, 

Quam  fastus  et  opes  et  inanem  extendere  luxum. 

(0  Leodagarii  a Quercu  farrago  Poematum,  t.  ii,  p.  63.) 

Gruter  also  has  incorporated  this  poem  with  another 
of  Sadolet’s  in  his  well-known  collection  ( Delic . Poet. 
Italorum,  Parte  alt.,  p.  582),  but  with  many  errors.  Por 
bini  (v.  14)  he  reads  vivi : for  errant  (v.  15)  or  am,  etc. 

Cardinal  Jaques  Sadolet  was  born  at  Modena  in  1477, 
and  justly  obtained  considerable  renown  as  a classical 
scholar.  He  was  joint  secretary  with  Bembo  to  Leo  X, 
who  made  him  Bishop  of  Carpentras  in  1517.  He  was  also 
secretary  to  Clement  VII,  and  created  by  Paul  III.  a 
Cardinal  in  1536.  He  died  in  Home,  1547.  He  was  the 
author  of  several  works  in  the  Latin  language,  and  wrote 
a good  many  Latin  letters,  which  are  still  interesting. 
Among  his  Latin  poems,  the  Curtins  and  the  Laocoon  are 
the  most  remarkable.  His  works,  four  volumes  in  quarto, 
were  published  at  Verona,  1737.  Mr  Hallam  says  (Lit. 
of  Europe , i,  264) , ‘ Bembo  and  Sadolet  had  bj^  common 
confession  reached  a consummate  elegance  of  style,  in  com- 


234 


LAOCOON 


parison  of  which  the  best  productions  of  the  last  age 
seemed  very  imperfect’  ; but  I venture  to  think  Mr 
Hallam  errs  in  saying  (p.  322),  that  ‘ except  his  epistles 
none  of  Sadolet’s  works  are  now  read,  or  appear  to  have 
been  very  conspicuous  in  his  own  age  Mr  Hallam 
makes  no  reference  to  Sadolet’s  Laocoon , or  to  Lessing’s 
estimation  of  it.  R.  P. 

4 Heyne’s  opinion  on  the  subject  is  not  - uninteresting. 
Excursus  vi,  ad  lib.  2,  Virgil,  ed.  Wagner  : ‘ Inanis  erat 
disputatio  omnis,  utrum  artifex  poetam,  an  hie  artificem 
ante  oculos  habuerit ; restat  enim  tertium,  quod  verum  est, 
habuisse  utrumque  diversos  auctores  quos  sequeretur  ; 
fuisse  quoque  utriusque  consilium  plan§  diversum,  alter 
enim  hoc  efficere  voluit,  ut  miserationem  moveret,  alter 
autem  Maro  noster,  ut  terrorem.  Hoc  si  animadvertis, 
ut  saepe  fit,  omne  acumen  concidit : reddit  res  ad  sum- 
mam  simplicitatem  \ R.  P.  See  Gothe’s  Ucber  Laocoon , 
B.  38,  pp.  48-9. 

5 De  la  Peinturc , tome  iii,  p.  516  : ‘ C’est  l’horreur  que 
les  Troiens  ont  con§ue  contre  Laocoon,  qui  etait  necessaire 
a Virgile  pour  la  conduite  de  son  Poeme  : et  cela  le  mene 
a cette  Description  pathetique  de  la  destruction  de  la 
patrie  de  son  heros.  Aussi  Virgile  n’avait  garde  de  diviser 
l’attention  sur  la  derniere  nuit,  pour  une  grande  ville 
entiere,  * par  la  peinture  d’un  petit  malheur  d’un 
Particulier  ’. 

6 With  gleaming  front  the  other  serpent  then 
Attacks  Laocoon,  and.  within  its  coils 
Entwining  him  from  neck  to  heel — his  entrails 
Tears  with  its  rapid  bites.  . . . 

The  serpent  then  with  quick  returning  glide 

Creeps  in  and  binds  with  twisted  knot  his  knees.  R.  P. 

7 Twice  round  his  waist  their  winding  volumes  rolled, 

And  twice  about  his  gasping  throat  they  fold.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  VII 

1 Hear  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  his  twelfth  Discourse  : 
* It  is  vain  for  painters  or  poets  to  endeavour  to  invent 
without  materials  on  which  the  mind  may  work,  and  from 
which  invention  must  originate — nothing  can  come  of 
nothing’  (vol.  i,  389). 


NOTES 


235 


‘ I know  there  are  many  artists  of  great  fame  who  appear  never  to 
have  looked  out  of  themselves,  and  who  probably  would  think  it 
derogatory  to  their  character  to  be  supposed  to  borrow  from  any  other 
painter.  But  when  we  recollect  and  compare  the  works  of  such  men 
with  those  who  took  to  their  assistance  the  inventions  of  others,  we 
shall  be  convinced  of  the  great  advantage  of  this  latter  practice  ’.  He 
cites  in  favour  of  this  preposition  Raffaello,  who  showed  in  his  noblest 
cartoon  how  much  he  had  studied  Masaccio.  ‘The  habit’  (he  adds) 
‘of  contemplating  and  brooding  over  the  ideas  of  great  geniuses  till 
you  find  yourself  warmed  by  the  contact,  is  the  true  method  of  an 
artist-like  mind  : it  is  impossible,  in  the  presence  of  those  great  men, 
to  think  or  invent  in  a mean  manner : a state  of  mind  is  acquired  that 
receives  those  ideas  only  which  relish  of  grandeur  and  simplicity  ’ (vol. 
ii,  48,  51,  52).  R.  P. 

2 The  first  edition  is  in  1747,  the  second  in  1755,  and  is 
entitled  Polymetis  ; or , an  Enquiry  Concerning  the  Agree- 
ment betioeen  the  Works  of  the  Roman  Poets  and  the  Remains 
of  the  Ancient  Artists , being  an  attempt  to  illustrate  them 
mutually  from  one  another . See  Preface  for  some  notice 
of  this  work.  R.  P. 

3 Val.  Flaccns,  lib.  vi,  55,  6 ; Polymetis,  Dial . vi,  p.  50. 

4 I say  it  may  be,  though  I would  wager  ten  to  one 
that  it  is  not.  Juvenal  is  speaking  of  the  early  days  of 
the  Republic,  when  nothing  was  known  of  splendour  and 
prodigality  ; and  when  the  soldier  spent  the  gold  and 
silver  which  he  had  earned  on  the  decoration  of  his  horse 
and  his  arms  (Sat.  xi,  100-7)  : 

Tunc  rudis,  et  Graias  mirari  nescius  artes, 

Urbibus  eversis,  praedarum  in  parte  reperta, 

Magnorum  artificum  frangebat  pocula  miles  ; 

Ut  phaleris  gauderet  equus,  caelataque  cassis 
Romuleae  simulacra  ferae  mansuescere  jussae 
Imperii  fato,  geminos  sub  rupe  Quirinos, 

Ac  nudam  effigiem  clypeo  fulgentis  et  hasta, 

Pendentisque  Dei  perituro  ostenderet  hosti. 

Admirably  rendered  by  Gifford  : 

Then  the  rough  soldier,  yet  untaught  by  Greece, 

To  hang  enraptured  oer  a finished  piece, 

If  haply,  mid  the  congregated  spoils, 

Proofs  of  his  power  and  guerdon  of  his  toils, 

Some  antique  vase  of  master  hands  were  found, 

Would  dash  the  glittering  bauble  on  the  ground, 

That  in  new  forms  the  molten  fragments  drest, 

Might  blaze  illustrious  round  his  courser’s  chest ; 

Or,  beaming  from  his  awful  helmet,  show 
The  rise  of  Rome  to  a devoted  foe.  R.  P. 


236 


LAOCOON 


Lessing  thinks  the  two  last  lines  obscure — e Thus  much 
is  plain,  that  this  was  a figure  of  the  god  Mars  ; but  what 
does  the  adjective  pendentis  signify?5  He  proceeds  to 
examine  the  solution  offered  by  various  authorities, 
Rigault,  Britannicus,  and  Spence,  who  adopts  the  opinion 
of  Addison  ( Travels , p.  182).  Addison  says  : 

Juvenal  here  describes  the  simplicity  of  the  old  Roman  soldiers,  and 
the  figures  that  were  generally  engraven  on  their  helmets.  The  first 
of  them  was  the  wolf,  giving  suck  to  Romulus  and  Remus  ; the  second, 
which  is  comprehended  in  the  two  last  verses,  is  not  so  intelligible. 
Some  of  the  commentators  tell  us  that  the  god  here  mentioned  is  Mars  ; 
that  he  comes  to  see  his  two  sons  sucking  the  wolf ; and  that  the  old 
sculptors  generally  drew  their  figures  naked,  that  they  might  have  the 
advantage  of  representing  the  different  swellings  of  the  muscles  and 
the  turns  of  the  body,  but  they  are  extremely  at  a loss  what  is  meant 
by  the  word  pendentis.  Some  fancy  it  expresses  only  the  great  em- 
bossment of  the  figure ; others  believe  it  hung  off  the  helmet.  Lubin 
supposes  that  the  god  Mars  was  engraven  on  the  shield  ; and  that  he  is 
said  to  be  hanging,  because  the  shield  which  bore  him  hung  on  the 
left  shoulder.  One  of  the  old  interpreters  is  of  opinion,  that  by 
hanging  is  only  meant  a posture  of  bending  forward  to  strike  the 
enemy  ; another  will  have  it,  that  whatever  is  placed  on  the  head  may 
be  said  to  hang,  as  we  call  hanging  gardens  such  as  are  planted  on  the 
top  of  the  house.  Several  learned  men,  who  like  none  of  these  explica- 
tions, believe  there  has  been  a fault  in  the  transcriber  ; and  that 
pendentis  ought  to  be  perdentis ; but  they  quote  no  manuscript  in 
favour  of  their  conjecture.  The  true  meaning  of  the  words  is  certainly 
as  follows.  The  Roman  soldiers,  who  were  not  a little  proud  of 
their  founder  and  the  military  genius  of  their  republic,  used  to  bear  on 
their  helmets  the  first  history  of  Romulus,  who  was  begot  by  the  gcd 
of  war,  and  suckled  by  a wolf.  The  figure  of  the  god  was  made  as  if 
descending  on  the  priestess  Ilia  ; or,  as  others  call  her,  Rhea  Sylvia. 
As  he  was  represented  descending,  his  figure  appeared  suspended  in 
the  air  over  the  vestal  virgin ; in  which  sense  the  word  pendentis  is 
extremely  proper  and  poetical.  Beside  the  antique  Basso-Relievo  that 
made  me  first  think  of  this  interpretation,  I have  since  met  with  the 
same  figures  on  the  reverse  of  a couple  of  antient  coins,  which  were 
stamped  in  the  reign  of  Antoninus  Pius. 

Thus  far,  says  Spence,  Mr  Addison,  who  by  a casual 
hint  from  a Relievo,  and  afterwards  by  the  plain  evidence 
of  a medal,  has  at  last  fixed  so  doubtful  an  expression  to 
so  clear  and  poetical  an  idea,  as  it  may  now  give  every- 
body who  reads  this  passage.  Lessing  is  not  at  all 
satisfied  with  this  explanation  ; he  ends  by  saying,  ‘ The 
passage  of  the  poet  is  corrupt,  and  must  remain  so.  It 
will  remain  so  if  twenty  new  explanations  were  paraded 
before  us.  Such,  for  instance,  might  be  that  which 
supposes  pendentis  to  be  used  in  a figurative  sense,  accord- 
ing to  which  it  would  have  the  meaning  of  uncertain, 


NOTES 


237 


•unresolved,  and  undecided.  Mars  pendens  would  then  be 
the  same  as  Mars  incertus  or  Mars  communis . ‘ Dii  com- 

munes sunt  (says  Servius,  ad.  v,  113,  1.  xii,  Aen.),  Mars, 
Bellona,  Victoria,  quia  hi  in  hello  utrique  parti  favere 
possunt’,  and  the  whole  line,  ‘ Pendentisque  Dei  (effigiem) 
ostenderet  hosti’.  Nevertheless,  Lessing  says  ‘non 
liquet’,  but  I venture  to  think  it  a very  probable  con- 
struction. R.  P. 

5 Till  I got  acquainted  with  these  Aurae  (or  Sylphs)  I found  myself 
always  at  a loss  in  reading  the  well-known  story  of  Cephalus  and 
Procris,  in  Ovid.  I could  never  imagine  how  Cephalus’s  crying  out 
Aura  Venias  (though  in  ever  so  languishing  a manner)  could  give  any- 
one a suspicion  of  his  being  false  to  Procris.  As  I had  been  always 
used  to  think  that  Aura  meant  the  air  in  general,  or  a gentle  breeze  in 
particular,  I thought  Procris’  jealousy  less  founded  than  the  most 
extravagant  jealousies  generally  are : but  when  I had  once  found  that 
Aura  might  signify  a very  handsome  young  lady,  as  well  as  the  air,  the 
case  was  entirely  altered  ; and  the  story  seemed  to  go  on  in  a very 
reasonable  manner.  Spence’s  Polymetis , Dialogue  XIII,  p.  208. 

6 Juven.  Sat.  viii,  52-55 : 

at  tu 

Nil  nisi  Cecropides ; truncoque  simillimus  Hermae  : 

Nullo  quippe  alio  viveris  discrimine,  quam  quod 
Illi  marmoreum  caput  est,  tua  vivit  imago. 

Gifford  renders  it : 

While  thou  in  mean  inglorious  pleasure  lost 
With  ‘ Cecrops  ! Cecrops  ! ’ all  thou  hast  to  boast 
Art  a full  brother  to  the  crossway  stone, 

Which  clowns  have  chipped  the  head  of  Hermes  on.  It.  P. 

If  Spence  had  taken  the  Greek  writers  into  his  counsel, 
perhaps  he  would,  but  perhaps  he  would  not,  have 
lighted  upon  the  old  Aesop  fable,  which,  out  of  such  a 
Hermes  pillar,  throws  a much  fairer,  and,  for  the  pur- 
pose, a much  more  indispensable  light  than  this  passage 
in  Juvenal:  ‘Mercury’,  says  Aesop,  ‘much  wished  to 
know  in  what  estimation  he  was  holden  by  men.  He 
concealed  his  godhead  and  went  to  a sculptor.  Here  he 
saw  a statue  of  Jupiter,  and  asked  the  artist  what  was 
the  price  of  it  ! a drachma,  was  the  answer.  Mercury 
laughed:  and  this  Juno?  (he  added.)  About  the  same. 
At  last  he  saw  his  own  image,  and  thought  to  himself : I 
am  the  messenger  of  the  gods  ; all  gain  comes  from  me  ; 
men  must  put  a higher  value  on  me.  And  this  god  here  ? 
(pointing  to  his  image)  how  dear  is  he  ! That  one,  said 


238 


LAOCOON 


the  artist.  Oh  ! if  you  buy  the  other  two  you  shall  have 
this  one  “into  the  bargain”.  Mercury  took  himself  off’. 
But  the  statuarist  did  not  know  him,  and  could  not  have 
intended  to  wound  his  self-love,  but  must  have  formed 
his  opinion  on  the  statue  merely  as  a matter  of  business, 
and  on  that  ground  only  have  set  so  small  a value  on  it. 
The  inferior  rank  of  the  god  which  it  represented  could 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  for  the  artist  valued  his  work 
according  to  the  ability,  industry,  and  labour  which  the 
execution  of  it  required,  and  not  according  to  the  rank 
and  worth  of  the  being  it  represented.  The  statue  of 
Mercury,  as  it  cost  less,  must  have  required  less  ability, 
industry,  and  labour  than  would  be  required  for  a statue 
of  Jupiter  or  J uno.  And  so  the  fact  was.  The  statues 
of  Jupiter  and  Juno  exhibited  the  persons  of  these  deities 
at  full  length.  The  statue  of  Mercury  on  the  other  hand 
was  a bad  four-cornered  pillar,  with  a mere  bust.  What 
marvel,  then,  that  he  was  thrown  into  the  bargain  for 
nothing  ? Mercury  overlooked  this  circumstance,  because 
he  had  present  to  him  only  his  own  supposed  over-weening 
merit,  and  therefore  his  humiliation  was  as  natural  as 
deserved.  But  you  would  look  in  vain  among  the  ex- 
positors, translators,  and  imitators  of  Aesop’s  fables  for 
the  slightest  trace  of  this  explanation.  But  I could 
mention  a long  list  of  them,  if  it  were  worth  while,  who 
have  understood  this  fable  simply,  that  is,  have  not 
understood  it  at  all.  They  have  either  not  perceived,  or 
at  least  have  exaggerated,  the  implied  absurdity  of 
supposing  that  all  statues  were  equally  difficult  to  execute. 
What  might  appear  a defect  in  this  fable  is  the  low  price 
which  the  artist  puts  on  his  Jupiter.  No  toymaker  would 
make  a doll  for  a drachma — a drachma  must  be  taken  as 
denoting  generally  a very  low  price.  (Fab.  Aesop.  90,  ed. 
Haupt.  p.  70.) 

7 Born  b.  c.  54  or  59,  died  young.  It.  P. 

8 Tibull.  Eleg.  4,  1.  3,  25,  32  ; Polymetis,  Dial.,  p.  84. 

9 Statius,  1.  i;  Sylv.  5.  v.  8 ; Polym.  Dial,  vii,  p.  81. 
Statius  stands  in  the  first  rank  of  the  heroic  poets  of  the 
Silver  age — of  whose  life  very  little  is  known.  He  is 
mentioned  by  Juvenal.  His  extant  works  are  Silvarum 
libri  v ; Thebaidos  libri  xii ; Achilleidos  libri  10,  which 


NOTES 


239 


last  he  died  while  writing.  So  Dante  introduces  him  in 
Canto  21  of  the  Purgatorio  ; 

Stazio  la  gente  ancor  di  la  mi  noma 

Cantai  di  Tebe,  e poi  del  grande  Achille. 

Ma  caddi  in  via  con  la  seconda  soma.  v.  91.  4.  R.  P. 

10  Lucretius  de  R.  N,9  1.  v,  736-747  : — 

It  Ver  et  Venus,  et  Veneris  praenuntius  ante 
Pinnatus  graditur  Zephyrus  ; vestigia  propter 
Flora  quibus  mater  praespargens  ante  via'i 
Cuncta  coloribus  egregiis  et  odoribus  opplet. 

Inde  loci  sequitur  Calor  aridus,  et  comes  una 
Pulverulenta  Ceres  ; et  Etesia  flabra  Aquilonum. 

Inde  Autumnus  adit ; graditur  simul  Evius  Evan  : 

Inde  aliae  tempestates  ventique  sequuntur, 

Altitonans  Volturnus  et  Auster  fulmine  pollens. 

Tandem  Bruma  nives  adfert,  pigrumque  rigorem 
Reddit ; Hiems  sequitur,  crepitans  ac  dentibus  Algus. 

Which  I venture  to  render  i — 

Then  Ver,  and  Venus,  and  her  certain  herald 
Zephyr  on  wings  upborne,  and,  as  they  tread, 

Maternal  Flora  scatters  in  their  path 
Odours  and  colours  bright,  which  all  things  fill. 

Next  comes  dry  Heat,  and  her  companion  sure 
Ceres,  with  dust  begirt : then  the  Gales 
Etesian  of  the  North : and  Autumn  next, 

With  jolly  Bacchus  in  her  train,  comes  on. 

Then  follow  Tempests  and  fierce  Winds  : Vulturnus 
Thundering  on  high,  and  Auster’s  lightning  blast. 

Bruma  at  last  brings  snows,  and  numbing  sloth 
Restores — then  Hiems  follows — and  chill  Algus 
Smiting  the  chattering  teeth.  R.  P. 

Spence  considers  this  passage  to  be  one  of  the  finest  in 
Lucretius — at  least  it  is  one  of  those  on  which  the  repu- 
tation of  Lucretius  as  a poet  is  founded.  But  in  truth  it 
is  to  lessen  this  reputation,  to  take  it  entirely  away,  when 
you  say,  4 The  whole  description  seems  to  me  to  have  been 
copied  from  some  ancient  procession  of  the  Deities  of 
the  several  seasons  and  their  attendants’  ; <and  why? 

4 because’,  says  the  Englishman,  4 such  processions  of  their 
Deities  in  general  were  as  common  among  the  Romans  of 
old,  as  those  in  honour  of  their  saints  are  in  the  same 
country  to  this  day.  All  the  expressions  used  by 
Lucretius  come  in  very  aptly  if  applied  to  a procession  ’ 
(Polym.  Dial.  12,  p.  192) ; admirable  reasons  ! and  how 
much  there  is  to  allege  against  the  last.  The  very  epithets 
which  the  poet  bestows  upon  his  abstract  personages 


240 


LAOCOON 


[Color  aridus — Ceres  pulverulenta — Volturnus  altitonans — 
fulmine  pollens  Auster — Algus  dentibus  crepitans ),  demon- 
strate that  they  derive  their  existence  from  the  poet  and 
not  the  artist,  who  would  have  described  them  very 
differently.  Spence,  moreover,  appears  to  have  taken 
this  idea  of  a procession  from  Abraham  Preigern,  who, 
in  his  remarks  upon  the  passage  of  the  poet,  says  : Ordo 
est  quasi  Pompae  cnjusdam  Per  et  Venus , Zephyrus  ei  Flora , 
&c.  But  there  even  Spence  should  let  the  matter  rest. 
The  poet  leads  on  the  seasons  as  it  were  in  a procession. 
That  is  right.  But  he  has  learnt  so  to  lead  them  from 
a procession — that  is  very  absurd. 

11  Aeneid , viii,  725  ; Polymetis,  Dial,  xiv,  p.  230. 

12  In  various  passages  of  his  Travels , and  of  his  Discourse 
on  Ancient  Coins. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

1 Polymetis,  Dial.,  ix.  p.  129. 

2 Metamorph .,  1.  iv.  19,  20  : 

Tu  puer  aeterims,  tu  formosissimus  alto 
Conspiceris  caelo : tibi  quum,  etc.  R.  P. 

3 Begeri,  Thes.  Brandenb.  v.  3,  242.  Begerus,  an  archae- 
ologist born  at  Heidelberg  in  1653,  died  at  Berlin  1705, 
librarian  to  Frederic  William,  Elector  of  Brandenburg. 
Among  his  other  publications  was  Thesaurus  ex  thesauro 
selectus  seu  Gemmae , 1685.  R.  P. 

4 Polymetis,  Dial.,  vi.  p.  63. 

5 Valerius  Flaccus.  His  only  extant  work  is  the 
Argonautica , on  the  Argonautic  expedition  ; it  is  unfin- 
ished. He  was  a friend  of  Martial,  and  is  referred  to  by 
Quintilian.  R.  P. 

6 Polymetis,  Dial.,  xx.  p.  311  : ‘ Scarce  anything  can  be 
good  in  a poetical  description,  which  would  appear  absurd 
if  represented  in  a statue  or  picture  \ 

7 lb.  p.  74.  In  the  text  Lessing  does  not  cite  the 
exact  words  of  Spence,  though  professing  to  do  so  ; they 
are:  ‘And  I believe5,  Spence  says,  ‘there  is  not  any 


NOTES 


241 


description  of  it  to  be  found  in  any  of  the  Roman  poets 
before  those  of  the  third  age,  in  which  Valerius  Flaccus 
and  Statius  have  drawn  two  very  terrible  pictures  of  her\ 
Argon.,  ii.  106  ; Theb 5,  69.  R.  P. 

8 Stolen  from  Virgil’s  Dido, 

maculisque  trementes 
interfusa  genas,  etc.  Aen.  iv.  R.  P. 

9 Argonaut , lib.  ii.  102-106.  The  preceding  lines  are  : 

Contra  Veneris  stat  frigida  semper 
Ara  loco : meritas  postquam  Dea  conjugis  aras 
Horruit,  et  tacitae  Martem  tenuere  catenae. 

Quocirca  struit  ilia  nefas,  Lemnoque  merenti 
Exitium  furiale  movet.  R.  P. 

10  Thebaid. , lib.  v.  61-64  : 

From  Paphos,  where  a hundred  altars  smoke, 

And  love-sick  votaries  her  aid  invoke, 

Careless  of  dress  and  ornaments  she  moves,' 

And  leaves  behind  her  cestus  and  her  doves. 

The  moon  had  measured  half  the  starry  frame : 

Far  other  flames  than  those  of  love  she  bears, 

And  high  in  air  the  torch  of  discord  rears,-— 

Soon  as  the  fiend-engender’d  serpents  roam, 

Diffusing  terrors  oer  each  wrangling  dome.  Lewis.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  IX 

1 ‘'Et efcej/  55,  av'iKa  M olpai  T&Xsaav  ravpoKepoov  Qebv, 
/c.t.  A..  Eur.  Bacch.  90.  R.  P. 

2 Valerius  Flaccus,  lib.  ii.  Argonaut,  v.  265-273  : 

Serta  patri,  juvenisque  comam  vestesque  Lyaei 
Induit,  et  medium  curru  locat ; aeraque  circum 
Tympanaque  et  plenas  tacita  formidine  cistas. 

Ipsa  sinus  hederisque  ligat  famularibus  artus: 

Pampineamque  quatit  ventosis  ictibus  hastam 
Respiciens  ; teneat  virides  velatus  habenas 
Ut  pater,  et  nivea  tumeant  ut  cornua  mitra. 

Et  sacer  ut  Bacchum  referat  scyphus. 

The  word  tumeant  in  the  penultimate  line  seems,  more- 
over, to  show  that  the  horns  of  Bacchus  were  not  made 
so  small  as  Spence  imagines. 

3 The  so-called  Bacchus  in  the  Medici  Gardens  at  Rome 
(Montfaucon,  Suppl.  aux  Ant.  t.  i.  p.  254)  has  little  horns 

R 


242 


LAOCOON 


sprouting  out  from  his  forehead  ; hut  there  are  connois- 
seurs who,  on  this  very  account,  consider  that  he  is  a faun. 
In  fact,  these  natural  horns  are  a disgrace  to  the  figure  of 
man,  and  only  become  creatures  who  occupy  a middle 
place  between  man  and  beasts.  Moreover,  the  attitude, 
the  joyous  glance  at  the  grapes  held  over  him,  is  more 
befitting  a companion  of  the  god  of  wine  than  the  god 
himself.  I remember  what  Clemens  Alexandrinus  says  of 
Alexander  the  Great  ( Protrept . p.  48,  edit.  Pott. ) : i&ovAero 
5e  Kal  5AA e^avfipos  ^Ay-pcovos  vibs  elvai  boiceiv,  kcl\  K€pacr(p6pos 
auaTrXdrrcadai  rrpbs  r&v  ayaXparoTroLwv,  rb  Ka\bv  avOpcoTrov 
vfiplffai  (n revdoov  Ktpari.  It  was  the  express  command  of 
Alexander  that  the  statuarist  should  represent  him  with 
horns  : he  was  quite  content  that  his  manly  beauty 
should  be  disfigured  with  horns,  if  people  would  only 
believe  that  his  origin  was  divine. 

4 The  history  of  the  horns  ascribed  to  Moses  is  curious, 
‘Cumque  descenderet  Moyses  de  Monte  Sinai  tenebat 
duas  tabulas  testimonii  et  ignorabat  quod  cornuta  esset 
facies  sua  ex  consortio  sermonis  Domini 5 ( Exod . xxxiv.  29). 
So  the  Vulgate,  and  the  version  of  Aquila ; but,  in 
accordance  with  all  the  other  versions,  our  Bible  reads, 

‘ Moses  wist  not  that  the  skin  of  his  face  shone\  etc.,  i.  e. 

‘ emitted  rays \ Nevertheless,  the  ‘horned5  version  has 
been  repeated  on  coins  and  paintings  (Smith’s  Did.  of 
Bible , tit.  ‘Horn’),  and  is  adopted  by  Michael  Angelo, 
who  naturally  followed  the  Vulgate  in  his  famous  statue 
of  Moses  in  San  Pietro  in  Vincoli  at  Rome  (Lanzi  Storia 
della  Pitt.  i.  110  : Vasari — though  stilted  and  ridiculous 
— Vita,  etc.,  Vita  di  M.  B.  vol.  x.  64,  65).  ‘ Questi,  e 

Mos&  : ben  mel  diceva  il  folto  Onor  del  mento,  e ’1  doppio 
raggio  in  fronte5,  says  Zappi.  Jeremy  Taylor  adopts  the 
literal  meaning,  6 But  as  when  the  sun  approaches  towards 
the  gates  of  the  morning,  he  first  opens  a little  eye  of 
heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spirits  of  darkness,  and  gives 
light  to  a cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to  Matins ; and  by- 
and-by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a cloud,  and  peeps  over  the 
eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  golden  horns  like  those  which 
decked  the  brows  of  Moses , when  he  was  forced  to  wear  a 
veil,  because  himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God 5 ; Holy 
Dying , chap.  i.  sect.  3.  The  notions  of  strength  and 
honour  connected  with  the  ‘ horn 5 are  frequent  in  Holy 
Writ,  and  probably  travelled  from  the  East  to  Rome ; 


NOTES 


243 


‘tauriformis  Aufidus’,  Hor.  Od.  iv.  14-25.  <5  ravpo/uLopfpov 

o/bLfjia  K T)(pi(rov  rrarphs , Eur.  ’iwv,  1260.  R.  P. 

5 In  a former  remark  which  I made,  that  the  ancient 
artists  did  not  sculpture  Furies,  it  had  not  escaped  me 
that  the  Furies  had  more  than  one  temple,  which  cer- 
tainly were  not  without  statues.  In  the  one  at  Cerynea, 
Pausanias  found  some  of  wood, — they  were  neither  large 
nor  otherwise  remarkable.  It  appeared  that  the  art 
which  these  did  not  display  was  visible  in  the  images  of 
the  priestesses,  which  were  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Temple, 
— which  were  of  stone,  and  of  far  finer  workmanship 
(Pausanias,  Achae.  cap.  xxv.  587,  ed.  Kuhn).  Nor  had  I 
forgotten  that  it  was  believed  that  their  heads  were  to 
be  seen  on  an  Abraxas , which  Chiffietius  had  made  known, 
and  on  a lamp  made  by  Licetus  {Dissert,  sur  les  Furies  par 
Bannier,  Mem.  de  l’Acad.  des  Inscript,  t.  v.  p.  48).  Nor 
was  I ignorant  of  the  urns  of  Etrurian  workmanship  by 
Gorius  (Tab.  151,  Musei  Etrusci),  on  which  Orestes  and 
Pylades  appeared  attacked  by  two  Furies  with  torches. 
But  I was  speaking  of  works  of  art,  from  the  category  of 
which  I thought  all  these  would  be  excluded.  And  even 
if  the  latter  could  not  so  well  be  excluded  as  the  others, 
the  fact  from  another  point  of  view  served  rather  to 
strengthen  than  to  oppose  my  opinion  ; for  however  little 
the  Etruscan  artists  especially  worked  for  the  production 
of  the  beautiful,  they  nevertheless  appeared  to  have 
pourtrayed  the  Furies  not  so  much  by  horrible  features 
as  by  the  treatment  of  them  and  their  attributa.  They 
thrust  their  torches  into  the  very  eyes  of  Pylades  and 
Orestes  with  so  tranquil  a countenance  that  they  seem  as- 
if  they  only  wished  to  frighten  them  in  jest.  It  is  only 
from  their  fright,  and  by  no  means  from  the  figures  of 
the  Furies  themselves,  that  we  can  infer  how  terrible 
their  appearance  was  to  Orestes  and  Pylades.  They  are 
Furies  and  yet  not  Furies.  They  perform  the  office  of 
Furies,  but  not  with  that  representation  of  fierceness  and 
wrath  which  we  are  accustomed  to  associate  with  their 
name, — not  with  a brow  which,  as  Catullus  says,  expir antis 
praeportat  pectoris  iras.  But  lately  Herr  Winkelmann 
thought  that  he  had  found  upon  a cornelian  in  the  cabinet 
of  Herr  Stoss  {Bibliobt.  der  G.  sch.  TFiss.,  v.  30)  a Fury 
rushing  with  dishevelled  hair  with  a dagger  in  her  hand. 
Hagedorn,  on  the  strength  of  this,  advises  artists  to  make 


244 


LAOCOON 


use  of  this  discovery,  and  to  represent  Furies  in  their 
pictures  ( Betrachtungen  uber  die  Mahler  ey,  222) ; but 
Winkelmann  himself  has  since  thrown  doubt  upon  this 
discovery,  because  he  cannot  find  that  the  ancients  ever 
armed  the  Furies  with  daggers  instead  of  torches 
( Descript . des  Pierres  gravees,  p.  84).  Doubtless,  there- 
fore, he  does  not  recognise  as  Furies  the  figures  upon  the 
coins  of  the  cities  of  Lyrba  and  Massaura,  which  Spann - 
heim  considers  as  such  (Les  Cesars  de  Julien , p.  44),  but  as 
a Hecate  Triformis,  for  otherwise  here  would  be  a Fury 
with  a dagger  in  each  hand,  and  it  is  curious  that  this 
one  also  appears  with  uncovered  and  dishevelled  hair,, 
whereas,  in  the  other  cases,  they  are  covered  with  a veil. 
But  assuming  Winkelmann’s  first  conjecture  to  be  right, 
it  would  apply  to  this  engraved  stone  as  w~ell  as  to  the 
Etruscan  Urn  ; unless,  owing  to  the  fineness  of  the  work, 
the  features  were  undistinguishable.  Besides,  all  en- 
graved stones  generally  may,  on  account  of  their  use  as 
seals,  be  considered  to  belong  to  an  allegorical  language, 
and  the  figures  on  them  are  more  frequently  arbitrary 
symbols,  according  to  the  fancy  of  the  owner,  than  the 
voluntary  work  of  the  Artist. 

6 Poly  metis,  Dial . vii.  p.  81. 

7 Fast. , vi.  295-8 : 

Esse  diu  stultus  Vestae  simulacra  putavi : 

Mox  didici  curvo  nulla  subesse  tholo. 

Ignis  inextinctus  templo  celatur  in  illo 
Effigiem  nullara  Vesta,  nec  ignis  habent. 

Ovid  speaks  only  of  the  worship  of  Yesta  in  Rome,  only 
of  the  temple  which  Numa  himself  had  built  for  her,  and 
of  which  he  had  a little  before  said  (259,  60) : 

Regis  opus  placidi,  quo  non  metuentius  ullum 
Numinis  iugenium  terra  Sabina  tulit. 

8 Fast.,  iii.  45,  6 : 

Sylvia  fit  mater  : Vestae  simulacra  feruntur 
Virgineas  oculis  opposuisse  manus. 

In  this  way  Spence  ought  to  have  compared  Ovid  with 
himself.  The  poet  is  speaking  of  different  times.  Here, 
of  the  time  before  Numa,  there,  of  the  time  after  him. 
During  the  former  she  was  worshipped  in  Italy  under  a 


NOTES 


245 


personal  representation,  as  she  had  been  in  Troy,  from 
whence  Aeneas  had  introduced  her  worship : 

manibus  vittas  : Vestamque  potentem 
Aetemumque  adytis  effert  penetralibus  ignem, 

says  Virgil  of  the  ghost  of  Hector  after  it  has  counselled 
Aeneas  to  take  flight.  Here  the  eternal  fire  of  Vesta  is 
expressly  distinguished  from  Vesta  herself  or  her  image. 
Spence  cannot  have  read  the  Roman  poets  with  sufficient 
care  for  his  purpose,  since  this  passage  has  escaped  him. 

9 Lipsius,  de  Vestd  et  Vestalibus , cap.  13.  Lipsius, 
Justus,  born  1547,  published  variae  lectiones  on  some  of 
the  Latin  authors.  Professor  at  Leyden  and  Louvain. 
Died  1606.  R.  P. 

10  Pausanias,  Corinth .,  cap.  xxxv,  198,  edit.  Kuth. 
Pausanias,  lived  in  the  time  of  the  Antonines,  author  of 
the  Itinerary  of  Greece , C/EAA ados  Trepiiiyriaris.  When  he 
visited  Greece  the  country  was  still  rich  in  memorials 
of  art.  He  describes  among  others  the  works  of  Poly- 
gnotus  at  Delphi,  the  painting  in  the  Poecile  at  Athens, 
and  the  Jupiter  of  Phidias  in  Elis.  R.  P. 

11  Idem,  Attic.,  cap.  xviii,  41  ; Polyb.  Hist.,  1.  xvi,  § 11. 

12  Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi,  sect.  4.  Scopas  fecit — ‘ Vestam 
sedentem  laudatam  in  Servilianis  hortis \ Lipsius  must 
have  had  this  passage  in  his  thoughts  when  he  (de  Vestd, 
cap.  3)  wrote,  ‘ Plinius  Vestam  sedentem  effingi  soli  tarn 
ostendit  a stabilitate  ’.  But  what  Pliny  says  of  a single 
work  of  Scopas  must  not  be  taken  for  a generally  received 
characteristic.  He  himself  remarks  that  in  the  coins 
Vesta  appears  as  often  standing  as  sitting.  But  he  there- 
by corrects  not  Pliny,  but  his  own  false  conception. 

13  Codinus,  Georgius,  surnamed  Curopalates,  lived 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  Byzantine  Empire ; died 
probably  after  the  taking  of  Constantinople,  a.d.  1453. 
He  wrote  a treatise,  as  became  a Curopalates , on  the 
Officers  of  the  Palace  of  Constantinople,  and  on  the  Offices 
of  the  Principal  Church.  His  Greek  is  said  to  be  barbarous 
(Smith’s  Diet.).  He  also  wrote  the  work  referred  to  in 
the  text.  R.  P. 

Excerpta  ex  libro  Chronico  de  Originib.  Constant,  edit. 
Venet.  12:  yhv  \*yov<riv 'Etrrlav,  kcl\  tt\ixttov(tiv  avr^v 

yvvouKa , rv/jLiravov  ^aerra^ovaav,  ineiu^  robs  avepovs  rj  yrj  v<p* 


246 


LAOOOON 


eavrrju  avyicXeUi.  Suidas  following  him,  or  both  following 
some  older  author,  says  under  the  word  'E aria.  as  follows  : 

4 The  earth  is  represented  under  the  name  of  Vesta  as  a 
woman  bearing  a Tympanum,  in  which  she  holds  the 
winds  enclosed ?.  The  reason  is  rather  absurd  : it  would 
have  sounded  better  to  have  said  that  the  Tympanum  was 
given  to  her  because  the  ancients  partly  believed  that 
her  figure  resembled  it.  aurvis  rv/uiravoeides  elvcu, 

Plutarch,  de  placitis  Philos .,  c.  10  id  : de  facie  in  orbe 
Lunae.  But  it  is  possible  that  Codinus  was  mistaken  in 
the  figure  or  the  name,  or  both.  He  knew  perhaps  no 
better  name  for  what  he  saw  Vesta  carry  than  a Tym- 
panum ; or  he  might  have  heard  it  called  a Tympanum, 
and  he  could  think  of  no  other  instrument  than  what  we 
call  a kettle-drum.  But  Tympana  were  also  a kind  of 
wheel.  ‘ Hinc  radios  trivere  rotis,  hinc  tympana  plaustris 
agricolae’,  Virg.  Georg.,  ii,  444,  and  what  we  see  borne 
by  Fabretti’s  Vesta  ( ad  tabulam  Iliadis , p.  334)  seems  to 
be  very  like  such  a wheel,  though  this  learned  man  takes 
it  for  a hand-mill. 


CHAPTER  X 

1 Polym.  Dial.  8,  91. 

2 Statius,  Theb.  viii,  551. 

3 Polym.  Dial,  x,  137-139. 

4 E is  &yaX/j.a  Ne/xeVecos. 

*H  Ne,ue(m  irpoXeyei  rtp  7rrjxe*,  rep  re 
M7]t  fafierpov  tl  7 rotetV,  fiTjP  a%aA iva  Xeyeiv. 

On  a statue  of  Nemesis. 

With  rule  and  bridle  Nemesis  should  stand 
To  chide  unbridled  tongue,  unruly  hand.  K.  P. 

5 In  the  picture  which  Horace  draws  of  Necessity,  and 
which  is  perhaps  the  richest  in  attributes  of  any  to  be 
found  among  the  old  poets — 

Te  semper  anteit  saeva  Necessitas 
Clavos  trabales  et  euneos  manu 
Gestans  ahenea  : nec  severus 
Uncus  abest  liquidumque  plumbum 


NOTES 


247 


in  this  picture  the  nails,  the  cramps,  the  molten  lead, 
whether  considered  as  means  of  strength  in  architecture, 
or  as  instruments  of  punishment,  belong  rather  to  the 
class  of  poetical  than  allegorical  attributes.  But  as  such 
they  are  too  much  heaped  up  one  on  the  other,  and  the 
passage  is  one  of  the  coldest  in  Horace.  Sanadon  says  : 
4 J’ose  dire  que  ce  tableau  pris  dans  le  detail  serait  plus 
beau  sur  la  toile  que  dans  une  ode  heroique.  Je  ne  puis 
souffrir  cet  attirail  patibulaire  de  clous  de  coins,  de  crocs, 
et  de  plomb  fondu.  J’ai  cru  en  devoir  decharger  la 
traduction  en  substituant  les  id4es  generates  aux  id^es 
singulteres.  C’est  dommage  que  le  poet  ait  eu  besoin  de 
ce  correctif  ’ (a  piece  of  French  pertness  I think.  R.  P.). 
The  feeling  of  Sanadon  was  line  and  just,  but  he  does  not 
put  it  on  the  right  ground.  It  is  not  because  the  attri- 
butes made  use  of  are  an  attirail  -patibulaire  (for  he 
might  have  adopted  the  other  interpretation,  and  have 
changed  this  apparatus  of  the  gallows  into  the  firmest 
support  of  architecture),  but  because  all  these  attributa 
are  properly  addressed  to  the  eye ; and  all  ideas  which 
ought  to  be  obtained  through  the  eye,  if  they  are  acquired 
through  the  ear,  require  a greater  effort,  and  are  suscep- 
tible of  less  perspicuity.  The  continuation  of  this  strophe 
reminds  me  by  the  way  of  two  mistakes  of  Spence,  which 
do  not  produce  the  most  favourable  opinion  of  the  accuracy 
with  which  he  has  weighed  the  passages  cited  by  him 
from  the  ancient  poets.  He  is  speaking  of  the  figure  under 
which  the  Romans  represented — Fidelity  or  Honesty. 
c The  Romans 5 (says  he)  ‘ called  her  Fides ; and  when 
they  called  her  sola  Fides , seem  to  mean  the  same  as  we 
do  by  the  words  “downright  honesty”.  She  is  repre- 
sented with  an  erect,  open  air ; and  with  nothing  but  a 
thin  robe  on,  so  fine  that  one  might  see  through  it. 
Horace,  therefore,  calls  her  thin-draped  in  one  of  his 
odes,  and  transparent  in  another  ’.  In  this  short  passage 
there  are  not  less  than  three  gross  faults.  First,  it  is 
false  that  sola  was  a peculiar  epithet  applied  by  the 
Romans  to  the  goddess  Fides.  In  both  the  passages  of 
Livy,  which  he  cites  in  proof  of  this  (1.  1.  21  ; 1.  11.  3),  it 
means  nothing  more  than  it  always  means — the  exclusion 
of  everything  else.  In  the  first  passage  the  word  soli 
appears  suspicious  to  the  critics,  and  is  supposed  to  have 
been  introduced  into  the  text  through  a fault  of  the 


248 


LAOCOON 


copyist,  occasioned  by  the  solenne , which  stands  next  to 
it.  In  the  second  passage  Livy  is  speaking  not  of  Honesty, 
but  of  Innocence,  of  not  being  amenable  to  punishment, 
Innocentia.  In  the  next  place  Horace,  in  one  of  his  Odes 
(the  35th  of  the  1st  book,  mentioned  above),  has  bestowed 
upon  Fides  the  epithet  ‘ thin-robed 5 — 

Te  Spes  et  albo  rara  Fides  colit 

Velata  panno. 

Earns  y it  is  true,  means  also  thin ; but  here  it  simply 
means  4 what  is  seldom  met  with  ’ ; and  the  epithet  is 
applied  to  Fides  herself,  and  not  to  her  robe.  Spence 
would  have  been  right  if  the  poet  had  said  raro  Fides 
velata  panno . Thirdly,  Horace  in  another  place  is  said  to 
call  Faith  or  Honesty  4 transparent  ’ : and  thereby  to  mean 
what  we  in  our  ordinary  professions  of  friendship  are 
wont  to  say,  4 You  can  see  my  heart 5 ; and  this  passage 
is  said  to  be  found  in  the  18th  Ode  of  the  1st  book  : — 
Arcanique  Fides  prodiga,  pellucidior  vitro. 

But  how  can  any  one  suffer  himself  to  be  misled  by 
a mere  word?  Does  then  Fides  arcani  prodiga  mean 
Fidelity  ? Does  it  not  rather  mean  Infidelity  ? It  is  of  this 
that  Horace  speaks,  and  not  of  Fidelity,  when  he  says  that 
she  is  as  transparent  as  glass,  because  she  reveals  to  every 
eye  the  secrets  entrusted  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

1 Apollo  delivers  over  the  cleansed  and  embalmed  body 
of  Sarpedon  to  Death  and  Sleep,  that  they  may  bring  him 
to  his  native  country  (II. , tc  681,  2). 

TlefjLTre  de  puv  tt o/xTroicriv  apa  Kpanruoiai  (pepecrOcu 
vTtt vcp  teal  davarcp  didvpaaiv. 

Caylus  recommends  this  idea  to  the  painter,  but  he  adds  : 
6 II  est  facheux  qu’Hom&re  ne  nous  ait  rien  laiss4  sur  les 
attributs  qu’on  donnait  de  son  temps  au  Sommeil ; nous 
ne  connoissons,  pour  caract^riser  ce  Dieu,  que  son  action 
meme,  et  nous  le  couronnons  de  pavots.  Ces  idees  sont 
modernes ; la  premiere  est  d’un  mediocre  service,  mais 
elle  ne  peut  etre  employee  dans  le  cas  present  ou  meme  les 


NOTES 


249 


fleurs  me  paroissent  deplacees,  sur  tout  pour  une  figure 
qui  groupe  avec  la  mort’.  {Tableaux  tires  de  Vlliade , de 
VOdysee  T Homer  e et  de  VEneide  de  Virgile , avec  des  observa- 
tions gMrales  sur  le  Costume , d Paris , 1757,  8.)  This  is  to 
require  of  Homer  one  of  those  petty  ornaments  which 
directly  conflict  with  his  great  manner.  The  most  in- 
genious attributa  which  he  could  have  given  to  Sleep 
would  not  have  characterised  him  nearly  so  perfectly, 
would  not  have  awakened  in  us  nearly  so  lively  an  image 
as  the  single  trait  by  which  he  makes  him  the  twin 
brother  of  Death.  Let  the  artist  seek  to  express  this, 
and  he  may  dispense  with  all  the  other  attributa.  The 
ancient  writers  have,  in  fact,  represented  Death  and 
Sleep  with  that  resemblance  between  them  which  we 
naturally  expect  in  twins.  On  a chest  of  cedar  wood  in 
the  Temple  of  Juno  both  rested  like  children  in  the  arms 
of  Night ; only  the  one  was  white  and  the  other  was 
black  : the  one  slept,  the  other  seemed  to  sleep  ; both 
had  their  feet  crossed,  for  so  I prefer  to  translate  the 
words  of  Pausanias  ( Eliae .,  cap.  xviii,  p.  422,  ed.  Kuh.), 
cLfMpoT cpovs  dt.ea’Tpa/jt.y.ei/ovs  rovs  7 roSas,  rather  than  with 
‘ crooked  feet  or  as  Gedoyn  has  rendered  it  in  his  own 
language,  les  pieds  contrefaits . What  can  crooked  feet 
express  here  ? Feet  crossed  over  one  another  is  the  usual 
attitude  of  sleepers,  and  sleep  in  MafFei  (Raccol. , PI.  151) 
lies  in  either  attitude.  Modern  artists  have  entirely 
departed  from  this  resemblance,  which  Sleep  and  Death 
had  in  the  treatment  of  the  ancients  ; and  it  has  become 
common  to  represent  Death  as  a skeleton,  or  at  the  most 
as  a skeleton  clothed  in  skin.  Caylus  was  bound  before 
all  things  to  advise  the  artist  whether  he  ought  to  follow 
the  old  or  the  new  usage.  Yet  he  appears  to  declare 
himself  in  favour  of  the  moderns,  for  he  treats  Death  as  a 
figure  with  which  another  crowned  with  flowers  would 
not  group  well.  Had  he  ever  thought  how  unsuitable 
this  modern  idea  of  Death  would  be  in  an  Homeric 
picture  ? and  how  could  the  disgust  arising  from  it  have 
failed  to  shock  him  ? I cannot  persuade  myself  that  the 
little  metal  figure  in  the  Ducal  Gallery  at  Florence,  which 
represents  a recumbent  skeleton  lying  with  one  arm  upon 
a funeral  urn  (Spence,  Polym .,  tab.  xli),  can  be  a real 
antique  ; at  least,  it  cannot  represent  Death  generally 
because-  the  ancients  represent  it  differently.  Even  their 


250  LAOCOON 

poets  have  never  spoken  of  him  under  this  repulsive 
form. 

Lessing  himself  wrote  an  ingenious  treatise  on  the 
manner  in  which  the  ancients  represented  Death,  entitled, 
Wie  die  Alien  den  Tod  gebildet  haben.  R.  P„ 

2 So  he  is  called  by  Lucian,  yaWov  5e  rbv  dpiarovruv 
ypcupecov  ''OfiTjpov  . . . dedeyjueda ; and  after  speaking  of 
Homer’s  power  of  painting  beauty,  ravra  ju.hu  ovv  nKaarrcav 
kol\  y pacpeoov  kclI  TroiTjT&v  tt aides  epydaourai.  Ef/coves,  S.  8,  p. 
10,  Rip.  ed.  So  Cicero,  speaking  of  Homer’s  blindness 
and  its  alleviations, 

At  ejus  picturam  non  poesim,  videmus.  Quae  regio,  quae  ora,  qui 
locus  Graeciae,  quae  species  formae,  quae  pugna,  quae  acies,  quod 
remigium,  qui  motus  hominum,  qui  ferarum,  non  ita  expictus  est,  ut, 
quae  ipse  non  viderit,  nos  ut  videremus,  effecerit.  Tusc.  Qu.}  1.  v,  39. 
R.  P. 

3 Betrachtmgen  uber  die  Mahlerey.  S.  159,  u.  f. 

4 Ad  Pisones,  128-30  : 

And  thou 

Should’st  rather  write  in  acts  the  tale  of  Troy, 

Than  be  the  first  to  sing  of  things  unknown, 

And  all  as  yet  unsung. 

Cf.  Harris,  Discourse  on  Music , Painting  and  Poetry , pp. 
<34,  5,  and  note  written  before  the  Laocoon.  R.  P. 

5 Invention  in  painting  does  not  imply  the  invention  of  the  subject, 
for  that  is  commonly  supplied  by  the  poet  or  historian  : with  respect 
to  the  choice,  no  subject  can  be  proper  that  is  not  generally  interest- 
ing—it  ought  to  be  either  some  eminent  instance  of  heroic  action  or 
heroic  suffering.  There  must  be  something  either  in  the  action,  or  in 
the  object  in  which  men  are  universally  concerned,  and  which  power- 
fully strikes  upon  the  public  sympathy.  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  4th  Disc., 
i,  345 ; see  Life  and  Writings  of  Fuseli , Third  and  Fourth  Lecture  on 
Invention.  R.  P. 

6 Lib.  xxxv,  sect.  36,  700. 

7 Richardson  appeals  to  this  work,  when  he  wishes  to 
illustrate  the  rule  that  in  a picture  the  attention  of  the 
beholder  should  not  be  drawn  away  from  the  principal 
figure  by  any  thing,  how  excellent  soever  in  itself. 
Protogenes,  in  his  famous  picture  (not  as  Lessing  cites 
the  passage),  of  Ialysus,  but  of  the  Satyr  leaning  against 
a pedestal,  on  which  a partridge  was  perching,  had 
painted  the  partridge  so  exquisitely  well  that  it  seemed 
a living  creature,  and  was  admired  by  all  Greece ; but 


NOTES 


251 


that  being  most  taken  notice  of,  he  defaced  it  entirely. 

( Theory  of  Painting— of  Invention,  p.  32.)  Richardson  has 
made  a mistake.  This  picture  was  not  in  the  Ialysus, 
but  in  another  picture  by  Protogenes,  which  is  called  the 
resting  or  weary  Satyr,  'Zarvpos  avairavoperos.  I should 
scarcely  have  adverted  to  these  errors,  arising  from  a 
misunderstanding  of  the  passage  in  Pliny,  were  they  not 
also  found  in  Meursius  (Phodi,  lib.  i,  cap.  14,  p.  38)  : 4 In 
eadem  tabula,  sc.  in  qua  Ialysus,  Satyrus  erat,  quern 
dicebant  Anapa vomenon,  tibias  tenens’.  The  same  is  to 
be  found  even  in  Herr  Winkelmann  ( Von  der  Nachahm. 
der  Gr.  W.  in  der  Mahl.  und  Bildh .,  s.  56).  Strabo  is  the 
real  voucher  of  this  little  story  about  the  partridge,  and 
this  expressly  distinguishes  between  the  Ialysus  and  the 
Satyr  leaning  on  the  pillar  on  which  the  partridge  sat 
(lib.  xiv,  p.  750;  edit.  Xyl. ; ed.  1707  ; Amstel.  Wolters, 
lxiv,  964,  965  ; trans.).  Meursius  and  Richardson  and 
Winkelmann  have  misunderstood  the  passage  in  Pliny, 
because  they  did  not  remark  that  he  is  speaking  of  two 
distinct  pictures  ; the  one  upon  whose  account  Demetrius 
would  not  vanquish  the  city,  because  he  did  not  choose 
to  attack  the  place  where  it  stood,  and  the  other  which 
Protogenes  painted  during  this  siege.  The  former  was 
Ialysus,  and  the  latter  the  Satyr. 

I must  observe*  in  vindication  of  Richardson,  I find  no 
mention  of  Ialysus  by  him,  in  the  passage  cited  above.  I 
think  Lessing  must  have  been  deceived  by  a French  trans- 
lation, though  in  the  passage  from  Richardson,  as  given 
by  Lessing,  the  name  of  Ialysus  appears.  R.  P. 

The  passage  in  Strabo  is  remarkable : Kal  at  rod 
Upcoroyeuovs  ypacpal * 8,  r TaAvtros,  Kal  6 2a rupos  Traperrcos 
crrvAcp • e7rl  5e  red  crrvXcp  tt  cpdij;  e<j)€i(rr7)K€r  7r  pbs  lov  our  cos 
eKK£XVva<rLVi  ioiKtv  oi  dvdpuiroi,  veooarl  avaKeipevov  rod 
TvivaKOS , (her t’  4kIlvov  eOavpa^ov,  6 de  'Zarvpos  Trapeooparo , Kal 
rot  (T(f)6dpa  Karoo  pOcopevos.  i^€Tr\rjrrou  5’  tri  paWov  oi  irepSi- 
Korpocpoi  KopiCovrcs  rods  nOacraobs,  Kal  riQevres  KaravriKpir 
eepOeyyovro  ycip  nphs  r^jv  ypaep)]V  oi  tt epfiiKes,  Kal  oox^ayooyovv. 
'Opobv  8e  6 npcoroyevrjs  rb  tpyov  irapepyov  yeyovbs,  4der)0ri  roov 
rod  r epeuovs  npoeardoroov  47rio’rpeif/ai  Trape\06ura  e£aAetyai 
rbv  6pviv,  Kal  iirolri<T€.  Strabo,  t.  2,  1.  iv,  p.  965. 

And  the  pictures  by  Protogenes,  Ialysus  and  Satyrus  standing  by  a 
column.  On  the  column  a partridge  at  one  time  stood ; at  which,  it 
appears,  when  the  picture  was  first  hung  up,  people  were  so  amazed, 


252 


LAOCOON 


that  they  kept  gazing  at  it,  while  Satyrns,  though  wonderfully  finished, 
was  scarcely  glanced  at.  And  the  people  were  still  more  astonished 
by  the  partridge-fanciers,  who  used  to  bring  tame  birds  and  put  them 
opposite ; for  the  tame  partridges  would  call  to  the  picture,  to  the 
delight  of  the  people.  Protogenes  however,  seeing  that  the  chief 
subject  of  the  picture  had  become  an  accessory,  asked  the  keepers  of 
the  sacred  place  to  let  him  enter  and  paint  out  the  bird,  which  he  did. 

See  also  Cic.  in  Verrem , 1.  iv,  c.  60.  4 What  should  we 

think’,  he  asks,  ‘of  a man  who  took  away  from  the 
Tarentinos,  “Satyrum  qui  apud  illos  in  aede  Vestae 
est?’”  Strabo  lived  in  the  reign  of  Augustus,  and  the 
earlier  part  of  the  reign  of  Tiberius.  It.  P. 


CHAPTER  XII 

1 Iliad,  <h  385. 

2 Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts  ; 

Into  a thousand  parts  divide  one  man,  and  make 
Imaginary  puissance,  etc.  Henry  V.  Chorus.  R.  P. 

3 But  she  retiring  with  strong  grasp  upheaved 

A rugged  stone,  black,  ponderous,  from  the  plain, 

A land  mark  fixed  by  men  of  ancient  times. 

‘Cowper’s  II.,  xxi,  474-6.  R.  P. 

4 Quintus  Calaber,  in  his  twelfth  book  (v.  158,  185)  has 
imitated  this  invisible  battle  of  the  gods  with  the  very 
plain  intention  of  surpassing  his  model.  For  instance,  it 
appears  that  the  Grammarians  thought  it  very  unbecoming 
that  a god  should  be  thrown  upon  the  earth  by  a stone. 
It  is  true  indeed  that  he  makes  the  gods  hurl  great 
portions  of  cliffs  at  each  other,  which  they  have  torn  from 
Mount  Ida  ; but  these  cliffs  are  shattered  to  pieces  against 
the  immortal  limbs  of  the  gods,  and  are  crumbled  like 
sand  among  them : 

O i 5e  Ko\(avas 

Xepcrlu  cnropprj£ai'Tes  axr’  ovdeos  T tiaioio 
BaAAov  67rJ  aAA^Aous*  at  $e  ipapiddoiai  ojioiai 
*P eta  diecncldvavTO'  Qs&v  7repl  5*  a<r%eTa  71 ua 
'PrjyvvfjLeva  did  Tvrda. 

A subtlety  which  destroys  the  principal  matter.  It 
elevates  our  idea  of  the  bodies  of  the  gods,  and  makes  the 
weapons  which  they  use  against  each  other  ridiculous. 
When  the  gods  throw  stones  at  each  other,  either  these 


NOTES 


253 


stones  must  injure  the  gods,  or  we  imagine  that  we  see 
only  naughty  bo}^s  who  are  pelting  each  other  with  lumps 
of  earth ; and  so  it  remains  that  old  Homer  was  much  the 
wisest,  and  all  the  blame  which  cold  critics  threw  on  him, 
all  the  strife  and  emulation  of  inferior  geniuses,  only 
served  to  set  his  wisdom  in  the  best  possible  light.  At 
the  same  time  I will  not  deny  that,  in  the  imitation  of 
Quintus,  there  are  some  very  good  passages  which  are  his 
own.  Nevertheless,  they  are  traits  which  would  not  so 
well  become  the  modest  grandeur  of  Homer,  as  do  honour 
to  the  fiery  vehemence  of  a modern  poet.  That  the  scream 
of  the  gods  which  sounded  high  up  to  heaven,  and  low 
down  into  the  abyss,  which  shook  the  mountain,  and  the 
city  and  the  fleet,  should  not  have  been  heard  by  men 
appears  to  me  to  be  a very  significant  poetical  artifice. 
The  scream  was  greater  than  could  be  apprehended  by 
the  feeble  organs  of  human  hearing. 

5 With  respect  to  strength  and  speed,  no  man  who  has 
only  read  Homer  cursorily  once  will  dispute  this  assertion. 
One  may  less  easily  remember  the  instances  from  which 
it  appears  that  the  poet  has  also  endowed  his  gods  with  a 
corporeal  strength  far  beyond  all  natural  proportions. 
Besides  the  passage  I have  adduced,  in  which  Mars 
thrown  to  the  ground  covers  seven  acres,  I refer  him  to 
the  helmet  of  Minerva,  Kvverju  eKarov  tto\4cop  TrpifAeeoV 
apapviav,  under  which  as  many  warriors  as  a hundred 
cities  could  send  to  battle  could  be  concealed  ; also  to  the 
stride  of  Neptune  (Iliad,  N.  20),  but  especially  to  the 
lines  in  the  description  of  the  Shield  in  which  Mars  and 
Minerva  lead  the  troops  of  the  besieged  city  (Iliad,  5 
516-19) 

?H pX€  5’  &pa  (T(piv  *Apir)s  koX  TlaWas  ’A Otjptj 
^A/ncpo)  xPvo'€lco,  xpv&*ia  elfxara  eadrju 
KaAcb  kcl\  /neydAoo  crvv  revx^aiv,  &<tt€  6ecv  7 rep, 

5 A [A(p\s  a pitfAw  A aol  S’  viroAi^oves  ijaau. 

Even  the  interpreters  of  Homer,  old  as  well  as  new,  do 
not  appear  to  have  always  borne  sufficiently  in  mind  this 
marvellous  stature  of  his  gods,  this  appears  from  the 
mitigating  explanations  which  they  thought  themselves 
obliged  to  give  as  to  the  helmet  of  Minerva  (see  the  edition 
of  Homer  by  Clarke  and  Ernesti  upon  the  passage  referred 
to).  But  we  lose  a very  great  deal  of  the  sublime  if  we 


254 


LAOCOON 


think  of  the  Homeric  gods  as  being  always  of  the  ordinary 
stature  in  which  we  are  accustomed  to  see  them  in  the 
company  of  mortals  on  canvass.  It  is  indeed  not  per- 
mitted to  painting  to  represent  them  in  those  gigantic 
proportions,  though  sculpture  may  do  this  in  some  degree  ; 
and  I am  convinced  that  the  old  masters  borrowed  from 
Homer  not  only  the  general  form  of  their  gods,  but  also 
the  colossal  form  which  they  so  often  represented  in 
their  statues  (Herod.  1.  11,  p.  130,  ed.  Wessel).  I reserve 
for  another  place  observations  on  this  colossal  character, 
and  why  in  sculpture  it  produces  so  great  an  effect,  and 
in  painting  none  at  all. 

6 Iliad,  r 381.  7 lb.,  E 23.  8 lb.,  T 444. 

9 lb.,  T 446.  10  lb.,  T 321. 

11  It  is  true  that  Homer  veils  from  time  to  time  his 
divinities  in  a cloud,  but  only  when  he  does  not  want 
them  to  be  seen  by  other  divinities,  e.  g.,  Iliad,  S 282, 
where  Juno  and  Sleep,  ijepa  ecro-a/^eVco,  fly  to  Ida,  where  it 
is  the  greatest  anxiety  of  the  crafty  goddess  not  to  be 
discovered  by  Venus,  who,  upon  the  pretext  of  a very 
different  expedition,  had  lent  her  girdle  to  Juno.  In  the 
very  same'  book  (333)  a golden  cloud  is  necessary  to  cover 
the  enamoured  Jupiter  and  his  wife  in  order  to  overcome 
her  chaste  resistance. 

ITcys  k eoi,  etris  via'i  Qe&v  aleLyeveraoov 
E vdovr  dOpiia€L€. 

She  is  not  afraid  of  being  seen  by  men,  but  by  the  gods  ; 
and  if  Homer  makes  Jupiter  say,  a few  lines  lower  down 

"H prj,  jj.7]T€  Gecov  r6  ye  $€lSi6l,  fi^re  tlv ’ avtipoov 
vO ipeaOar  rolov  roi  eyk  vecpos  aixfpiKaXv^ca 
Xpvcreov 

that  does  not  mean  that  she  had  need  of  this  cloud,  but 
only  that,  in  this  cloud,  she  would  be  as  invisible  to  the 
gods  as  she  always  was  to  men.  And  so  when  Minerva 
puts  on  the  helmet  of  Pluto  {Iliad,  E 384,  5),  which  has 
the  same  effect  of  concealment  as  the  cloud,  it  is  not  that 
she  may  not  be  seen  by  the  Trojans,  who  either  do  not  see 
her  at  all,  or  as  disguised  as  Sthenelus,  but  only  that 
Mars  may  not  recognise  her. 


NOTES 


255 


12  The  classical  reader  will  recollect  the  admirable  lines 
in  which  Venus  reveals  to  her  son  the  enmity  of  the  gods 
to  Troy  : 

Adspice : namque  omnem,  quae  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  humida  circum 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam  . . . 

Apparent  dirae  facies  inimicaque  Trojae 
Numina  magna  Deum.  Aen.  ii.  604-623. 

Now  cast  your  eyes  around,  while  I dissolve 
The  mists  and  fiims  that  mortal  eyes  involve  ; 

Purge  from  your  sight  the  dross,  and  make  you  see 
The  shape  of  each  avenging  Deity. 

. . . dreadful  sounds  I hear, 

And  the  dire  forms  of  hostile  gods  appear.  Dryden. 

Sophocles  makes  Minerva  darken  the  eyes  of  Ajax  that 
he  may  not  see  Ulysses. 

5E7o?  (Xkotuxtoo  j6A ecpapa  teal  dedopK^ra.  Aias,  85.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


1 Iliad,  A 44-53.  Tableaux  tires  de  Vlliade , p.  70. 

2 Thus  he  pray’d,  and  Phoebus  heard  him  pray ; 

And  vex’d  at  heart,  down  from  the  tops  of  steep  heaven  stoop’d ; his 
bow 

And  quiver  cover’d  round,  his  hands  did  on  his  shoulders  throw  ; 

And  of  the  angry  Deity  the  arrows  as  he  mov’d 
Rattled  about  him.  Like  the  night  he  rang’d  the  host,  and  rov’d 
(Apart  the  fleet  set)  terribly  : with  his  hard-loosing  hand 
His  silver  bow  twang’d  ; and  his  shafts  did  first  the  mules  command 
And  swift  hounds ; then  the  Greeks  themselves  his  deadly  arrows 
shot. 

The  fires  of  death  went  never  out : nine  days  his  shafts  flew  hot 
About  the  army.  Chapman.  R.  P. 

3 Iliad,  A 1-4.  Tableaux  tirts  de  Vlliade,  p.  30. 

4 Within  the  fair  pav’d  court  of  Jove,  he  and  the  gods  conferr’d 
About  the  sad  events  of  Troy  : amongst  whom  minister’d 
Bless’d  Hebe,  nectar.  As  they  sat  and  did  Troy’s  tow’rs  behold, 
They  drank  and  pledg’d  each  other  round  in  full-crown’d  cups  of  gold. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 


256 


LAOCOON 


CHAPTER  XIV 

1 Tableaux  tires  de  Vlliade , Avert,  p.  v : On  est  toujours  convenu, 
que  plus  un  Poeme  fournissoit  d’iniages  et  d’actions,  plus  il  avait  de 
superiority  en  Poesie.  Cette  reflexion  m’avait  conduit  a penser  que  le 
calcul  des  diff6rens  Tableaux,  qu’offrent  les  Poemes,  pouvait  servir 
a comparer  le  merite  respectif  des  Poemes  et  des  Poetes.  Le  nombre 
et  le  genre  des  Tableaux  que  presentent  ces  grands  ouvrages,  auroient 
ete  une  esp£ce  de  pierre  de  touche,  ou  plutot  unc  balance  certaine  du 
merite  de  ces  Poemes  et  du  genie  de  leurs  Auteurs. 

2 So  much  the  rather  thou  celestial  light 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate.  Milton,  Paradise  Lost , bk.  3.  R.  P. 

3 Crabbe’s  admirable  poem  of  the  Lover's  Journey  affords 
an  illustration  of  the  position  in  the  text : 

On  rode  Orlando,  counting  all  the  while 
The  miles  he  passed,  and  every  coming  mile  ; 

Like  all  attracted  things,  he  quicker  flies, 

The  place  approaching  where  th’  attraction  lies  ; 

When  next  appear’d  a dam — so  call  the  place — 

Where  lies  a road  confined  in  narrow  space ; 

A work  of  labour,  for  on  either  side 
Is  level  fen,  a prospect  wild  and  wide, 

With  dikes  on  either  hand  by  ocean’s  self-supplied  : 

Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 

And  salt  the  springs  that  feed  the  marsh  between ; 

Beneath  an  ancient  bridge,  the  straiten’d  flood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud ; 

Near  it  a sunken  boat  resists  the  tide, 

That  frets  and  hurries  to  th’  opposing  side  ; 

The  rushes  sharp,  that  on  the  borders  grow, 

Bend  their  brown  flow’rets  to  the  stream  below, 

Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress  slow ; 

Here  a grave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom, 

Nor  wears  a rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume  ; 

The  few  dull  flowers  that  o’er  the  place  are  spread 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed ; 

Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom, 

Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume  ; 

Here  the  dwarf  sallows  creep,  the  septfoil  harsh, 

And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh ; 

Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound, 

And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound ; 

No  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun, 

Birds,  save  a wat’ry  tribe,  the  district  shun, 

Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters  run. 

* Various  as  beauteous,  Nature,  is  thy  face  ’, 

Exclaim’d  Orlando : * all  that  grows  has  grace ; 

All  are  appropriate— bog,  and  marsh,  and  fen, 

Are  only  poor  to  undiscerning  men 


NOTES 


257 


Here  may  the  nice  and  curious  eye  explore 
How  Nature’s  hand  adorns  the  rushy  moor ; 

Here  the  rare  moss  in  secret  shade  is  found, 

Here  the  sweet  myrtle  of  the  shaking  ground ; 

Beauties  are  these  that  from  the  view  retire, 

But  well  repay  th’  attention  they  require. 

The  Lover's  Journey  ; Tale  X. 

4 What  we  call  poetical  pictures  the  Ancients  called 
6 phantasies  ’ , as  we  may  remember  in  Longinus.  And 
what  we  call  the  Illusion , the  deceit  of  a picture,  they 
called  the  4 energy  \ Plutarch  tells  us  of  somebody  who 
said  (Erot.  t.  ii.  Edit.  Henr.  Steph.  p.  1351),  4 That 
poetical  “phantasies5’,  on  account  of  their  energy,  were 
the  dreams  of  waking  men  \ 

I much  wish  that  modern  treatises  on  the  art  of  poetry 
had  made  use  of  this  term,  and  had  altogether  avoided 
the  word  picture.  We  should  have  been  spared  a number 
of  half-true  rules,  whose  principal  foundation  is  the 
analogy  of  a term  arbitrarily  employed.  No  man  would 
confine  poetical  ‘phantasies5  within  the  limits  of  a 
material  picture  ; but  as  soon  as  people  begun  to  call 
4 phantasies 5 poetical  pictures  the  foundation  of  the  error 
was  laid. 

Plutarch,  de  Placitis  Philosoph. , has  a short  chapter  on 
the  difference  between  phantasia,  phantaston,  phantasti- 
cum,  phantasma:  riv\  bia<pepei,  (pavrcuria,  k.t. A. 

Chrysippus  says  that  these  four  things  differ  from  each  other.  For 
phantasia  is  an  affection  of  the  mind,  presenting  with  itself  also  that 
which  has  caused  it.  As  when  by  the  sense  of  sight  we  see  whiteness, 
there  is  an  affection  of  the  mind  engendered  by  the  sight.  And  of 
this  affection  we  can  say  that  white  underlies  it,  and  so  in  like  manner 
of  things  affecting  us  by  the  sense  of  touch  and  smell.  This  affection 
is  called  phantasia,  from  phos  ‘light*  : for  as  light  shows  itself,  and 
the  several  things  which  are  surrounded  by  it,  so  does  phantasia 
present  itself,  and  that  which  has  caused  it.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XV 


1 Iliad , A 105  : — 

Avtlk  iavAa  r 6^ov  ivj-oov  . . . 

Kali  rb  pXv  eif  Kar46tjK€  rauvaadiiLevos,  ttotI  yalrj 
5 A7 K\ivas  . . . 

A vrap  6 av \a  7rcojua  (paperpTjs • in  5’  eAer’  idv 


S 


258 


LAOCOON 


’Aj8 A7?tci,  7r repSevra,  yeXaiveccv  epy  oSvvaccv 
Ahf/a  d’  SttI  j/evpfj  /careKocrjuei  TriKpbv  oiarbv, 

°E\Ke  8 ’ djuov  y \v<pi8as  T6  Xaficov,  kcl\  vevpa  &6eia. 
N evpty  [lev  [iaC<p  weA cureg,  ro^cp  8e  aidripov . 

A vrap  ineidi]  KVKXorepes  yey a r6^ov  ireivev, 

Aiy^e  fiibs,  vevprj  8e  yey3  iax^v,  <*Ato  5’  oiarbs 
’Otvfi eA^s,  kolO’  opuXov  e'nnrecrQcu  peveaivoov. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

1 Piurima  sunt  Homeri  loca  (says  Bishop  Copleston)  quae 
in  re  navali  fuse  explicando  immorantur : quando  aut  in 
mare  deducitur  navis  aut  velis  sive  remigio  per  fluctus 
agitur,  aut  ad  terram  appellitur  : e quibus  vero  omnibus 
vix  unum  aut  alterum  invenias,  qui  rem  ita  exponat  ut 
piduram  efficiat,  nisi  singulos  motus  gestusque  corporis 
fideliter  ac  nudo  sermone  referre,  id  demum  sit  pictorem 
agere.  He  cites  Odyss.  A 577  ; ib,,  781.  Praelediones 
Academicae , Prae.  v,  p.  66.  R.  P. 

2 Iliad,  E 722-731 : 

Her  golden-bridled  steeds 

Then  Saturn’s  daughter  brought  abroad ; and  Hebe,  she  proceeds, 

T’  address  her  chariot  instantly  ; she  gives  it — either  wheel 
Beam’d  with  eight  spokes  of  sounding  brass  ; the  axle-tree  was  steel, 
The  fell’ffs  incorruptible  gold,  their  upper  bands  of  brass, 

Their  matter  most  unvalued,  their  work  of  wondrous  grace. 

The  naves  in  which  the  spokes  were  driven,  were  all  with  silver  bound  ; 
The  chariot’s  seat,  two  hoops  of  gold  and  silver  strength’ned  round  ; 
Edg’d  with  a gold  and  silver  fringe ; the  beam  that  look’d  before, 

Was  massy  silver ; on  whose  top,  geres  all  of  gold  it  wore, 

And  golden  poitrils.  Chapman. 

I am  glad  to  find  my  preference  for  Chapman  to  Pope 
is  in  some  degree  supported  by  Mr  Hallam  : ‘ Chapman’s 
translation  with  all  its  defects  is  often  exceedingly 
Homeric,  a praise  which  Pope  himself  seldom  attained’. 
Lit . of  Eur.,  vol.  ii,  131.  R.  P. 

3 Iliad,  B 42-46  : 

The  dream  gone,  his  voice  still  murmured 
About  the  king’s  ears : who  sate  up,  put  on  him  in  his  bed 
His  silken  inner  weed ; fair,  new,  and  then  in  haste  arose  ; 

Cast  on  his  ample  mantle,  tied  to  his  soft  feet  fair  shoes ; 


NOTES 


259 


His  silver-hilted  sword  he  hung  about  his  shoulders,  took 
His  father’s  sceptre  never  stain’d  ; which  then  abroad  he  shook. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

4 Iliad , B 101-108  : 

Then  stood  divine  Atrides  up,  and  in  his  hand  compress’d 
His  sceptre,  th’  elaborate  work  of  fiery  Mulciber  : 

Who  gave  it  to  Saturnian  Jove ; Jove  to  his  messenger ; 

His  messenger,  Argicides,  to  Pelops,  skill’d  in  horse  ; 

Pelops  to  Atreus,  chief  of  men  : he  dying,  gave  it  course 
To  prince  Thyestes,  rich  in  herds  ; Thyestes  to  the  hand 
Of  Agamemnon  render’d  it,  and  with  it  the  command 
Of  many  isles,  and  Argos  all.  Chapman.  R.  P. 

s Iliad , A.  234-239  : 

Yet  I vow,  and  by  a great  oath  swear, 

Even  by  this  sceptre,  that  as  this  never  again  shall  bear 
Green  leaves  or  branches,  nor  increase  with  any  growth  his  size  ; 
Nor  did  since  first  it  left  the  hills,  and  had  his  faculties 
And  ornaments  bereft  with  iron  ; which  now  to  other  end 
Judges  of  Greece  bear,  and  their  laws,  received  from  Jove,  defend. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

6 Iliad , A 105-111 : 

Who  instantly  drew  forth  a bow  most  admirably  made 
Of  th’  antler  of  a jumping  goat,  bred  in  a steep  up-land, 

Which  archer-like  (as  long  before  he  took  his  hidden  stand 
The  doom’d  one  skipping  from  a rock)  into  the  breast  he  smote, 
And  headlong  felled  him  from  his  cliff.  The  forehead  of  the  goat 
Held  out  a wondrous  goodly  palm,  that  sixteen  branches  brought, 
Of  all  of  which  (join’d)  an  useful  bow  a skilful  bowyer  wrought, 
Which  piked  and  polished  both  the  ends  he  hid  with  horns  of  gold. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

1 Sir  W.  Hamilton  speaks  of  the  three  principal  orders 
in  which  the  imagination,  fantasy,  or  fancy,  represents 
ideas  as — 1,  the  Natural  order;  2,  the  Logical  order; 
3,  the  Poetical  order.  ‘ Of  the  last  he  says,  ‘ it  consists 
in  seizing  individual  circumstances,  and  in  grouping  them 
in  such  a manner  that  the  imagination  shall  represent 
them,  so  as  they  might  be  offered  by  the  sense  Lectures 
on  Metaphysics , ii,  266,  7.  R.  P. 

3 The  Alps,  by  Herr  Von  Haller. 

3 Because  these  verses  contain  little  more  than  a 
botanical  catalogue  of  flowers  in  a particular  place — 
‘quam  diversa  penitus  sint  res  totum  dicere  et  omnia  9 


280 


LAOCOON 


(says  Copleston,  Praeled.  Acad.,  4,  p.  55).  You  see  and 
smell  the  flowers  in  Shakspere. 

With  fairest  flowers, 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I live  here,  Fidele, 

I’ll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave  : thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that’s  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose  ; nor 
The  azur’d  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins  ; no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 

Out-sweeten’d  not  thy  breath. 

Cywheline , act  iv,  scene  1. 

Here’s  flowers  for  you  ; 

Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram  ; 

The  marigold  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun, 

And  with  him  rises  weeping ; . . . 

. . . Daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ; violets,  dim, 

But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno’s  eyes, 

Or  Cytherea’s  breath  ; pale  primroses, 

That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a malady 
Most  incident  to  maids  ; bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown-imperial ; lilies  of  all  kinds, 

The  flower-de-luce  being  one. 

Winter's  Tale , act  iv,  scene  3. 

4 Brei'tinger’s  Critische  Dichtkunst,  Th.  ii,  s.  807. 

5 I could  wish  that  Lessing  had  here  referred  to  Du 
Bos’  chapters  on  Des  Differens  Genres  de  Poesie  et  de  leur 
Caradere  (vol.  i,  s.  viii : Reflexions  Critiques  sur  la  Poesie 
et  sur  la  Peinture),  and  (s.  ix.),  ‘Comment  on  rend  les 
sujets  dogmatiques  interessans  ’,  (p.  63)  4 chaque  genre  (de 
Poesie)  nous  touche  & proportion  que  l’objet  lequel  il  est 
de  son  essence  de  peindre  et  d’imiter  est  capable  de  nous 
cmouvoir.  Voila  pourquoi  le  genre  Elegiaque  et  le  genre 
Bucolique  ont  plus  d’attrait  pour  nous  que  le  genre 
Dogmatique.  . . . (p.  65)  Quand  Virgile  composa  ses 
Georgiques  qui  sont  on  Poeme  dogmatique  dont  le  titre 
nous  promet  des  instructions  sur  l’agriculture  et  sur  les 
occupations  de  la  vie  champetre  il  eut  attention  a le 
remplir  d’imitations  faites  d’apres  les  objets  qui  nous 
auroient  attaches  dans  la  nature.  Yirgile  ne  s’ est  pas 
meme  contente  de  ces  images  repandues  avec  un  art  infini 
dans  tout  l’ouvrage  etc.  R.  P. 

6 The  mother  cow  must  wear  a lowering  look, 

Sour-headed,  strongly-neck’d  to  bear  the  yoke ; 


NOTES 


261 


Her  double  dewlap  from  her  chin  descends, 

And  at  her  thighs  the  ponderous  burden  ends. 

Long  as  her  sides  and  large,  her  limbs  are  great ; 

Rough  are  her  ears,  and  broad  her  horny  feet. 

Her  colour  shining  black,  but  fleck’d  with  white  ; 

She  tosses  from  the  yoke  : provokes  the  fight. 

She  rises  in  her  gait,  is  free  from  fears, 

And  in  her  face  a bull’s  resemblance  bears  : 

Her  ample  forehead  with  a star  is  crown’d 
And  with  her  length  of  tail  she  sweeps  the  ground. 

7 Lofty-neck’d ; 

Sharp-headed,  barrel-belly’ d,  broadly  back’d, 

Brawny  his  chest  and  deep . 

Dryden’s  Virgil,  Georgies,  book  iii.  R.  P. 

8 Georg.,  iii,  51  and  79. 

9 Christn.  Ewald  v.  Kleist,  born  at  Zeblin  in  Pomerania, 
1715  ; killed  in  battle  1759  ; a Danish  officer,  author  of 
several  works,  among  them  Der  Fruhling , published  at 
Berlin  1749,  to  which  Lessing  here  refers.  R.  P. 

]0  De  Art.  Poet.,  16. 


11  Prologue  to  the  Satires,  340  : 

That  not  in  Fancy’s  maze  he  wandered  long, 

But  stoop’d  to  Truth,  and  moraliz’d  his  song. 

Ibid.  148 : 

Who  could  take  offence, 

While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  Sense  ? 


The  observation  which  War  burton  makes  upon  this  last 
passage  may  be  taken  for  an  authentic  explanation  of  the 
poet.  He  uses  Pure  equivocally,  to  signify  either  chaste 
or  empty  ; and  has  given  in  this  line  what  he  esteemed 
the  true  character  of  descriptive  poetry,  as  it  is  called. 
A composition,  in  his  opinion,  as  absurd  as  a feast  made 
up  of  sauces.  The  use  of  a picturesque  imagination  is  to 
brighten  and  adorn  good  sense  : so  that  to  employ  it  only 
in  description  is  like  children’s  delighting  in  a prism  for 
the  sake  of  its  gaudy  colours  ; which  when  frugally 
managed,  and  artfully  disposed,  might  be  made  to  repre- 
sent and  illustrate  the  noblest  objects  in  nature. 

It  is  true  that  the  poet,  as  a commentator,  appears  to 
have  regarded  the  thing  rather  from  its  relation  to 
morality  than  to  art,  but  so  much  the  better  that  it 
appears  both  from  the  one  side  and  the  other  to  be  of  no 
value. 


262 


LAOCOON 


12  Poetique  Franqaise,  t.  ii,  p.  501  : 

J’6crivais  ces  reflexions  avant  que  les  essais  des  Allemands  dans  ce 
genre  (l’Eclogue)  fnssent  connus  parmi  nous.  I Is  ont  execute  ce  que 
j’avois  congu  ; et  s’ils  parviennent  a donner  plus  au  moral  et  moins  au 
detail  des  pemtures  physiques,  ils  excelleront  dans  ce  genre,  plus  riche, 
plus  vaste,  plus  fdcond  et  infiniment  plus  naturel  et  plus  moral  que 
celui  de  la  galanterie  champetre. 

Marmontel,  Jean  Fran§ois,  French  writer  of  Poems, 
Romances,  and  Criticisms  ; born  1723,  died  1799.  His 
most  successful  work  was  Les  Contes  Moraux . R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

1 Mazzuoli,  Francesco,  called  also  Parmegiano  or  Parme- 
gianino.  Pilkington  says,  4 He  had  a peculiar  talent  in 
giving  beauty,  elegance,  grace,  and  sweetness  to  his  fea- 
tures. He  excelled  in  portrait  as  much  as  in  his  history 
. . . his  outline  is  true  and  firm,  and  the  light,  easy  flow  of 
his  draperies  gives  an  inexpressible  beauty  to  his  picture  ’. 
In  the  well-known  verses  of  Agostino  Caracci,  the  young 
painter  is  told  to  acquire 

Un  po  di  grazia  del  Parmegianino. 

Born  at  Parma  1503,  died  in  1540.  R.  P. 

2 Hogarth  wisely  told  his  story  of  the  Mariage  k la 
Mode  in  a succession  of  pictures.  R.  P. 

3 Comme  le  tableau  qui  represente  une  action,  ne  nous  fait  voir  qu’un 
instant  de  sa  duree,  le  Peintre  ne  sgauroit  atteindre  au  sublime  que  les 
choses  qui  ont  precede  la  situation  pr6sente,  jettent  quelquefois  dans 
un  sentiment  ordinaire.  Au  contraire  la  Poesie  nous  decrit  tous  les 
incidens  remarquables  de  Taction  qu’elle  traite,  etc.  Du  Bos,  i,  87 : 
Reflexions  Critiques  sur  la  Poesie  et  sur  la  Peinture.  R.  P. 

4 The  art  of  disposing  the  foldings  of  the  drapery  makes  a very  con- 
siderable part  of  the  painter’s  study.  To  make  it  merely  natural  is  a 
mechanical  operation  to  which  neither  genius  nor  taste  are  required  : 
whereas  it  requires  the  nicest  judgment  to  dispose  the  drapery  so  that 
the  folds  shall  have  an  easy  communication,  and  gracefully  follow  each 
other  with  such  natural  negligence  as  to  look  like  the  effect  of  chance, 
and  at  the  same  time  show  the  figure  under  it  to  the  utmost  advantage. 
Sir  J.  Reynolds’  4 th  Disc.,  i,  350.  R.  P. 

5 Gedanken  uber  die  Schonheit  und  uber  den  Geschmack 
in  der  Mahlerei , s.  69. 


NOTES  263 

6 Compare  Du  Bos,  i.  s.  xxv.  312 ; De  la  Mtcanique  cle 
la  Poesie , etc.  R.  P. 

7 See  Da  Bos,  ib.  327 : La  construction  Latine  permet  de  renverter 
1’ordre  natural  des  mots  et  de  les  transposer  jusqu’  a ce  qu’on  ait 
rencontre  un  arrangement  dans  lequel  ils  se  prononcent  sans  peine  et 
rendent  meme  une  melodie  agreable,  etc.  ; an  advantage  of  Classical 
Languages  not  mentioned  here.  R.  P. 

8 Dionysius  Halicarnass.  in  Vita  Homeri  apud  Th.  Gale 
in  Opusc.  Mythol p.  491. 

Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  where  he  was  a teacher  of 
Rhetoric  ; born  between  B.c.  78  and  54  ; generally  called 
Dionyinus  by  the  ancients.  He  lived  at  Rome  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  ; was  a very  successful  and  volu- 
minous author  on  rhetoric,  criticism,  and  history.  His 
great  work  was  on  the  History  of  Rome  5 ApxaioAoyla , nine 
of  the  twenty  books  in  which  it  is  written  we  have 
complete.  R.  P. 

9 I find  that  Servius  offers  another  excuse  for  Virgil. 
For  Servius  too  has  remarked  the  difference  between  the 
two  shields : 4 Sane  interest  inter  hunc  et  Homeri  clypeum : 
file  enim  singula  dum  fiunt  narrantur  : hie  vero  perfecto 
opere  nascuntur  : nam  et  hie  arma  prius  accipit  Aeneas 
quam  spectaret  ; ibi  postquam  omnia  narrata  sunt,  sic  a 
Thelide  deferuntur  ad  Achillem’  ( Od . 625,  1.  viii.  Aen.). 
And  why  this?  ‘because’,  says  Servius,  4 there  were  imaged 
upon  the  shield  of  Aeneas  not  merely  the  few  events  which 
the  poet  mentions,  but 

genus  omne  futurae 

Stirpis  ab  Ascanio  pugnataque  in  ordine  bella’. 

How  could  it  have  been  possible  that,  even  taking  into 
account  the  speed  with  which  Vulcan  is  obliged  to  prepare 
the  shield,  the  poet  could  have  mentioned  by  name  the 
long  series  of  posterity,  and  have  described  in  the  order 
of  time  all  the  wars  which  they  would  wage?  This  is 
the  meaning  of  the  somewhat  obscure  words  of  Servius  : 
4 opportune  ergo  Virgilius  quia  non  videtur  simul  et  narra- 
tionis  celeritas  potuisse  connecti  et  opus  jam  veiociter 
expediri  ut  ad  versum  posset  occurrere  ’.  For  as  Virgil 
could  only  bring  forward  a little  of  the  4 non  enarrabile 
texto  clypei’,  so  also  he  could  not  do  this  whilst  Vulcan 
himself  was  working  at  it,  but  must  wait  till  all  was 
completed.  I wish  very  much  for  Virgil’s  sake  that  this 


264 


LAOCOON 


reasoning  of  Servius  was  groundless  ; my  defence  of  him 
would  be  much  more  creditable.  For  what  was  the 
necessity  of  bringing  the  whole  Roman  history  into  the 
shield?  By  a few  pictures  Homer  made  his  shield  an 
epitome  of  all  that  happens  in  the  world.  Does  it  not 
seem  as  if  Virgil,  seeing  that  he  could  not  surpass  the 
Greek  in  the  design  and  execution  of  his  pictures,  tried 
at  least  to  surpass  him  in  the  number  of  them  ? and  what 
could  be  more  childish  ? 

Servius,  Maurus  or  Marius  Honoratus,  a celebrated 
grammarian ; his  great  work  a Commentary  on  Virgil,  a 
contemporary  of  Macrobius,  who  refers  to  him  in  the 
Saturnalia,  probably  lived  about  the  beginning  of  the 
fifth  century.  R.  P. 

De  Quincey  remarks  on  this  passage  : 

In  the  three  last  sentences  there  is  a false  thought,  unworthy  of 
Lessing’s  acuteness.  The  vulgar  conception  of  didactic  poetry  is,  that 
the  adjunct  didactic  expresses  the  primary  function  (or  in  logical  phrase 
the  difference  of  that  class  of  poetry),  as  though  the  business  were  first 
of  all  to  teach  something,  and  secondly  to  convert  this  into  poetry  by 
some  process  of  embellishment.  But  such  a conception  contains  a con- 
tradictio  in  adjecto , and  is  in  effect  equivalent  to  demanding  of  a species 
that  it  shall  forgo,  or  falsify,  the  distinctions  which  belong  to  it,  in 
virtue  of  its  genus.  As  a term  of  convenience  didactic  may  serve  to 
discriminate  one  class  of  poetry ; but  didactic  it  cannot  be  in  philo- 
sophic rigour  without  ceasing  to  be  poetry.  Indirectly,  it  is  true,  that 
a poet  in  the  highest  departments  of  his  art  may,  and  often  does,  com- 
municate mere  knowledge,  but  never  as  a direct  purpose,  unless  by 
forgetting  his  proper  duty. 

He  then  suggests  various  mean  and  domestic  occupa- 
tions which  might  be  so  treated  by  the  poet  as  to  affect 
us  with  pleasure,  and  he  proceeds  : 

Now  Virgil,  in  his  ideal  of  a cow,  and  the  description  of  her  meri- 
torious points,  is  nearly  upon  as  low  ground  as  any  that  is  here  sug- 
gested. And  this  it  is  which  has  misled  Lessing.  Treating  a mean 
subject,  Virgil  must  (he  concludes)  have  adapted  his  description  to 
some  purpose  of  utility : for,  if  his  purpose  had  been  beauty,  why  lavish 
his  power  upon  so  poor  an  occasion,  since  the  course  of  his  subject  did 
not  in  this  instance  oblige  him  to  any  detail  ? But  if  this  construction 
of  the  case  were  a just  one,  and  that  Virgil  really  had  framed  his  descrip- 
tions merely  as  a guide  to  the  practical  judgment,  this  passage  would 
certainly  deserve  to  be  transferred  from  its  present  station  in  the 
Georgia  to  the  Grazier’s  Pocket-Book,  as  being  (what  Lessing  in  effect 
represents  it  to  be)  a plain  bond  fide  account  of  a Smithfield  prize  cow. 
But  though  the  object  here  described  is  one  which  is  seldom  regarded 
in  any  other  light  than  that  of  utility,  and  on  that  account  is  of  neces- 
sity a mean  one,  yet  the  question  still  remains,  in  what  spirit,  and  for 
what  purpose,  Virgil  has  described  this  mean  object  ? For  meanness 


NOTES 


265 


and  deformity  even,  as  was  said  before,  have  their  modes  of  beauty. 
Now,  there  are  four  reasons  which  might  justify  Virgil  in  his  descrip- 
tion, and  not  one  of  them  having  any  reference  to  the  plain  prosaic 
purpose  which  Lessing  ascribes  to  him.  He  may  have  described  the 
cow — 

I.  As  a difficult  and  intractable  subject,  by  way  of  a bravura  or  pas- 
sage of  execution.  To  describe  well  is  not  easy  ; and  in  one ‘class  of 
didactic  poems,  of  which  there  are  several,  both  in  Latin,  English,  and 
French,  viz.,  those  which  treat  of  the  mechanic  parts  of  the  critical 
art,  the  chief  stress  of  the  merit  is  thrown  upon  the  skill  with  which 
thoughts,  not  naturally  susceptible  of  elegance,  or  even  of  a metrical 
expression,  are  modulated  into  the  proper  key  for  the  style  and  orna- 
ments of  verse.  This  is  not  a very  elevated  form  of  the  poetic  art,  and 
too  much  like  rope-dancing.  But  to  aim  humbly  is  better  than  to  aim 
awry,  as  Virgil  would  have  done  if  interpreted  under  Lessing’s  idea  of 
didactic  poetry. 

II.  As  a familiar  subject.  Such  subjects,  even  though  positively 
disgusting,  have  a fascinating  interest  when  reproduced  by  the  painter 
or  the  poet ; upon  what  principle  has  possibly  not  been  sufficiently 
explained.  Even  transient  notices  of  objects  and  actions,  which  are 
too  indifferent  to  the  mind  to  be  more  than  half  consciously  perceived, 
become  highly  interesting  when  detained  and  reanimated,  and  the  full 
light  of  the  consciousness  thrown  powerfully  upon  them  by  apicturesque 
description.  A street  in  London,  with  its  usual  furniture  of  causeway, 
gutter,  lamp-posts,  etc.,  is  viewed  with  little  interest ; but  exhibited  in 
a scene  at  Drury  Lane,  according  to  the  style  of  its  execution,  becomes, 
very  impressive. 

As  to  Lessing’s  objection  about  the  difficulty  of  collecting  the  suc- 
cessive parts  of  a description  into  the  unity  of  a co-existence,  that 
difficulty  does  not  exist  to  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  subject  of 
the  description,  and  at  any  rate  is  not  peculiar  to  this  case. 

III.  As  an  ideal.  Virgil’s  cow  is  an  ideal  in  her  class.  Now  every 
ideal,  or  maximum  perfectionis  (as  the  old  metaphysicians  called  it)  in 
natural  objects,  necessarily  expresses  the  dark  power  of  nature,  which  is 
at  the  root  of  all  things  under  one  of  its  infinite  manifestations  in 
the  most  impressive  way  ; that  which  elsewhere  exists  by  parts  and 
fractions  dispersed  amongst  the  species  and  in  tendency,  here  exists  as 
a whole,  and  in  consummation.  A Pandora  who  should  be  furnished 
for  all  the  functions  of  her  nature  in  a luxury  of  perfection,  even 
though  it  were  possible  that  the  ideal  beauty  should  be  disjoined  from 
this  ideal  organization,  would  be  regarded  with  the  deepest  interest. 
Such  a Pandora  in  her  species,  or  an  approximation  to  one,  is  the  cow 
of  Virgil,  and  he  is  warranted  by  this  consideration  in  describing  her 
without  the  meanness  of  a didactic  purpose. 

IV.  As  a beautiful  object.  In  those  objects  which  are  referred 
wholly  to  a purpose  of  utility,  as  a kitchen-garden  for  instance,  utility 
becomes  the  law  of  their  beauty.  With  regard  to  the  cow  in  particular, 
which  is  referred  to  no  variety  of  purpose,  as  the  horse  or  the  dog,  the 
external  structure  will  express  more  absolutely  and  unequivocally  the 
degree  in  which  the  purposes  of  her  species  are  accomplished  ; and  her 
beauty  will  be  a more  determinate  subject  for  the  judgment  than 
where  the  animal  structure  is  referred  to  a multitude  of  separate  ends 
incapable  of  co-existing.  Describing  in  this  view,  however,  it  will  be 
said  that  Virgil  presupposes  in  his  reader  some  knowledge  of  the 
subject;  for  the  description  will  be  a dead  letter  to  him,  unless  it 
awakens  and  brightens  some  previous  notices  of  his  own.  I answer. 


266 


LAOCOON 


that  with  regard  to  all  the  common  and  familiar  appearances  of  nature, 
a poet  is  entitled  to  postulate  some  knowledge  in  his  readers  : and  the 
fact  is,  that  he  has  not  postulated  so  much  as  Shakspere  in  his  line 
description  of  the  hounds  of  Theseus  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream , 
or  of  the  horse  of  Arcitei : and  Shakspere,  it  will  not  be  pretended, 
had  any  didactic  purpose  in  those  passages. 

This  is  my  correction  applied  to  the  common  idea  of  didactic  poetry ; 
and  I have  thought  it  right  to  connect  it  with  the  error  of  so  distin- 
guished a critic  as  Lessing.  If  he  is  right  in  his  construction  of 
Virgil’s  purpose  that  would£prove  only  that,  in  this  instance,  Virgil  was 
wrong. 

10  Aeneid , viii.  447-54  : 

Their  artful  hands  a shield  prepare. 

One  stirs  the  fire,  and  one  the  bellows  blows  ; 

The  hissing  steel  is  in  the  smithy  drowned  ; 

The  grot  with  beaten  anvils  groans  around. 

By  turns  their  arms  advance  in  equal  time, 

By  turns  their  hands  descend  and  hammers  chime  ; 

They  turn  the  glowing  mass  with  crooked  tongs. 

Dryden.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

1 Scaliger  (the  elder),  Julius  Caesar,  critic,  poet,  phy- 
sician, philosopher  ; born  in  Italy,  educated  in  Germany, 
lived  in  France  ; born  1484,  died  1558.  His  son  was 
Justus  Josephus,  born  1540,  died  1609,  an  accomplished 
classical  scholar.  R.  P. 

2 Perrault,  Charles,  rather  a voluminous  French  writer. 
Amongst  other  works  he  wrote  a poem  on  painting,  be- 
came a member  of  the  Academie  Frangaise  in  1671,  to  the 
prosperity  of  which  he  largely  contributed  ; born  1628, 
died  1703.  R.  P. 

3 Terrasson,  Jean,  a French  litterateur  of  some  celebrity 
in  his  day,  a Professqr  of  Greek  and  Latin  at  the  College 
de  France  ; more  esteemed  for  his  knowledge  than  his 
taste.  Wrote  a criticism  on  the  Iliad , and  was  vehe- 
mently attacked  by  Madame  Dacier.  He  was  born  1670, 
and  died  1750.  R.  P. 

1 In  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  [Beaumont  and  Fletcher].  The  first 
act  has  been  often  and  justly  attributed  to  Shakspere  ; but  the  last  act 
is  no  less  indisputably  his,  and  in  his  very  finest  style.  (I  doubt  this 
very  much.  R.  P.) 


NOTES 


267 


4 Dacier,  Anne  Lefevre  ; born  1654,  died  1720  ; a French 
lady  acquainted  with,  but  not  deeply  read  in,  the  classical 
authors  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  employed  as  an  assist- 
ant by  the  editors  of  the  classics  in  usum  Delyliini.  She 
translated  several  classical  authors  not  perfectly  under- 
stood by  her.  Her  translation  of  Homer  was  the  work 
which  pleased  her  countrymen  most  ; but  it  was  never 
esteemed  by  real  scholars,  and  had  many  of  the  defects  of 
the  French  school.  R.  P. 

5 ‘ Scuto  ejus,  in  quo  amazonum  praelium  caelavit  in 
intumeseente  ambitu  parmae  : ejusdem  concava  parte 
Deorum  et  Gigantum  dimicationem  \ Plinius,  1.  xxxvi. 
5.  40. 

6 Iliad , 2 497-508  : — 

Otherwhere 

A solemn  court  of  law  was  kept,  where  throngs  of  people  were  : 

The  case  in  question  was  a fine  imposed  on  one  that  slew 
The  friend  of  him  that  follow’d  it,  and  for  the  fine  did  sue, 

Which  th’  other  pleaded  he  had  paid.  The  adverse  part  denied, 

And  openly  affirm’d  he  had  no  penny  satisfied. 

Both  put  it  to  arbiterment ; the  people  cried  ’twas  best 
For  both  parts,  and  th’  assistants  too  gave  their  dooms  like  the  rest. 
The  heralds  made  the  people  peace  : the  seniors  then  did  bear 
The  voiceful  heralds’  sceptres  ; sate  within  a sacred  sphere, 

On  polish’d  stones  ; and  gave  by  turns  their  sentence.  In  the  court 
Two  talents  of  gold  were  cast,  for  him  that  judg’d  in  justest  sort. 

Chapman.  It.  P. 

7 Boivin,  Louis,  a learned  Frenchman,  born  1649,  died 
1724,  appears  to  have  been  considered  a great  authority 
by  the  Academie  des  Inscriptions,  of  which  he  became  a 
member  in  1701,  R.  P. 

8 ‘ On  it  he  wrought  ’,  ‘ on  it  he  formed  ’,  ‘ on  it  he 
placed’,  ‘on  it  Vulcan  variously  fashioned ’.  The  first 
begins  with  line  483,  and  goes  down  to  489  ; the  second, 
from  490  to  509  ; the  third,  510  to  540 ; the  fourth,  541 
to  549  ; the  fifth,  550  to  560  ; the  sixth,  561  to  572 ; the 
seventh,  573  to  586  ; the  eighth,  587  to  589 ; the  ninth, 
590  to  605  ; the  tenth,  606  to  608.  The  third  picture  is 
the  only  one  without  the  introductory  words.  It  is,  how- 
ever, clear  enough  from  the  second,  eV  8e  Sucowo^o-e  irSAeis, 
and  from  the  reason  of  the  thing  itself,  that  it  must  be  a 
distinct  picture. 


268  LAOCOON 

9 Phocis,  cap.  25.  31.  Vide  ante  as  to  the  itinerary  of 
Pausanias.  R.  P. 

10  In  order  to  show  that  I have  not  spoken  too  strongly 
about  Pope,  I will  refer  in  his  own  language  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  passage  which  I am  about  to  quote  : 4 That 
Homer  was  no  stranger  to  aerial  perspective  appears  in  his 
expressly  marking  the  distance  from  object  to  object ; he 
tells  us  ’,  etc.  I say  that  Pope  has  here  made  an  entirely 
wrong  use  of  the  words  aerial  perspective  (perspective 
aerienne),  for  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  lessening  of 
size  in  proportion  to  distance,  but  merely  expresses  the 
faintness  and  change  of  colour  according  to  the  condition 
of  the  air  or  medium  through  which  it  is  seen.  Any  one 
who  could  make  such  a blunder  as  this  may  well  have 
been  ignorant  of  the  whole  matter. 

In  1755,  Lessing  had  written,  in  conjunction  with  Men- 
delssohn, an  essay,  entitled,  4 Pope  ein  Metaphysiker ! J 
The  irony  of  his  comparison  between  Pope’s  positions  as 
philosophical  and  Leibnitz’s  positions  as  poetical  is  com- 
mented on  by  Danzel,  i,  278,  9.  Lessing’s  Leben  und 
WerJce.  R.  P. 

11  Sophocles,  Aristotle  remarks,  introduced  three  actors 
on  the  stage  and  scene-painting,  rpeis  5e  kcu  (TKrivoypoupiav 
2 ',o(poK\rjs  : Trepl  YIoljjt.  i,  p.  14.  Sophocles,  who  carried 
Greek  drama  to  its  perfection,  was  born  at  Colonus,  which 
he  immortalised  in  his  last  and  perhaps  greatest  drama, 
b.c.  496,  and  died  in  his  90th  year.  R.  P. 

12  Betracht  uber  die  M abler  ei,  s.  185. 

Written  in  the  year  1763.  Lessing’s  loyalty  to  Winkel- 
mann  is  very  remarkable  ; it  has  been  referred  to  in  the 
Preface,  and  will  be  mentioned  again.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XX 

i She  was  a very  beautiful  woman,  with  lovely  eyebrows  and  com- 
plexion, 

With  beautiful  cheeks  and  face,  ox-eyes,  snow-white  skin ; 

Dark  (or  round)  eyed,  tender,  a grove  full  of  charms, 

White  armed,  delicate  breathing,  beauty  undisguised ; 

The  complexion  fair,  the  cheek  rosy, 

The  countenance  pleasing,  the  eye  beautiful. 

Inartificial  loveliness  undyed,  natural ; 


NOTES 


269 


A rose-coloured  fruit  tinged  her  whiteness, 

As  if  one  should  dye  ivory  with  splendid  purple. 

Long-necked,  dazzling  white,  whence  she  was  often  called — 
Swan-born  lovely  Helen. 

It  seems  like  a bad  translation  of  a Persian  poem,  or 
Chinese  novel.  R.  P. 

2 Lessing’s  English  translators  have  not,  I think,  quite 
understood  these  words.  Constantinus  Manasses  lived  in 
the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  in  the  reign  of  Manuel 
Comnenus.  He  wrote  a sort  of  Chronicle  of  the  World, 
2vvoil/(ri$  icrropiK^f  in  a kind  of  irregular  verse,  called  by 
later  writers  versus  politici , which  was  in  fact  rhythmical 
prose.  Smith’s  Biog.  Diet.  ‘Manasses’,  but  see  also  Du 
Cange,  title  politici  versus  ; the  origin  of  ‘ politici 5 is  very 
doubtful.  Perhaps  Cicero’s  account  is  correct:  ‘Nam 
cum  sic  hominis  natura  generata  sit,  ut  habeat  quiddam 
innatum  quasi  civile  atque  populare , quod  Graeci  tto\itlk})v 
vocant  ’,  etc.  De  Fin.  v.  23. 

For  a time  these  ‘ versus  politici  ’ seem  to  have  been 
very  popular.  It  is  remarkable  that  Meursius  dedicates 
his  edition  of  this  work  of  Constantinus  Manasses  to 
Gustavus  Adolphus.  R.  P. 

3 Her  matchless  person  every  charm  combined 
Form’d  in  th’  idea  of  a painter’s  mind. 

Bound  in  a knot  behind,  her  ringlets  roll'd 
Down  her  soft  neck,  and  seem’d  like  waving  gold. 

Her  cheeks  with  lilies  mix  the  blushing  rose : 

Her  forehead  high,  like  polish’d  iv’ry  shows. 

Beneath  two  arching  brows  with  splendor  shone 
Her  sparkling  eyes,  each  eye  a radiant  sun  ! 

Here  artful  glances,  winning  locks  appear, 

And  wanton  Cupid  lies  in  ambush  here  : 

'Tis  hence  he  bends  his  bow,  he  points  his  dart, 

’Tis  hence  he  steals  th’  unwary  gazer’s  heart. 

Her  nose  so  truly  shap’d,  the  faultless  frame 
Not  envy  can  deface,  nor  art  can  blame. 

Her  lips  beneath,  with  pure  vermilion  bright, 

Present  two  rows  of  orient  pearl  to  sight  : 

H ere  those  soft  words  are  form’d  whose  power  detains 
Th’  obdurate  soul  in  love’s  alluring  chains  ; 

And  here  the  smiles  receive  their  infant  birth, 

Whose  sweets  reveal  a paradise  on  earth. 

Her  neck  and  breast  were  white  as  falling  snows, 

Round  was  her  neck  and  full  her  bosom  rose. 

Firm  as  the  budding  fruit  with  gentle  swell 
Each  lovely  breast  alternate  rose  and  fell. 

Thus  on  the  margin  of  the  peaceful  seas 
The  waters  heave  before  the  fanning  breeze. 


270 


LAOCOON 


Her  arms  well  turn’d,  and  of  a dazzling  hue, 

With  perfect  beauty  gratified  the  view. 

Her  taper  fingers  long  and  fair  to  see 
From  every  rising  vein  and  swelling  free ; 

And  from  her  vest  below,  with  new  delight, 

Iter  slender  foot  attracts  the  lover’s  sight. 

Not  Argus’  self  her  other  charms  could  spy, 

So  closely  veiled  from  every  longing  eye. 

Yet  may  we  judge  the  graces  she  revealed, 

Surpassed  not  those  her  modest  garb  concealed 
Which  strive  in  vain  from  fancy’s  eye  to  hide 
Each  angel  charm  that  seemed  to  heaven  allied. 

Hoole’s  Transl.  of  Ariosto.  R.  P. 

4 The  hasty  multitude 

Admiring  enter’d,  and  the  work  some  praise, 

And  some  the  architect.  Par.  Lost,  I.  730.  R.  P. 

5 Dialogo  della  Pittura  intitolato  VAretino , Firenze  1735, 
p.  178 : ‘ Se  vogliono  i Pittori  senza  fatica  trovare  un 
perfetto  esempio  di  bella  Donna,  leggano  quelle  Stanze 
dell’  Ariosto,  nelle  quali  egli  discrive  mirabilmente  le 
bellezze  della  Fata  Alcina : e vedranno  parimente,  quanto 
i buoni  Poeti  siano  ancora  essi  Pittori  \ 

Dolce  Luigi,  an  Italian  litterateur.  Tiraboschi  says  he 
was  historian,  grammarian,  rhetorician,  philosopher,  poet. 
He  was'  also  editor,  translator,  collector  of  memoirs  ; and 
among  his  more  important  works  was  Dialogo , referred  to 
above.  Born  at  Venice  1508,  died  1568.  R.  P. 

6 Me’  for  (meglio).  R.  P. 

7 Ibid.:  ‘Ecco,  che  quanto  alia  proportione,  P ingenio- 
sissimo  Ariosto  assegna  la  migliore,  che  sappiano  formar  le 
mani  de’  piu  eecellenti  Pittori,  usando  questa  voce  industri, 
per  dinotar  la  diligenza,  che  conviene  al  buono  artefice’. 

8 Ibid.  p.  182  : 4 Qui  P Ariosto  colorisce,  e in  questo  suo 
colorire  dimostra  esse, re  un  Titiano 

9 Ibid.  p.  180:  ‘Poteva  P Ariosto  nella  guisa,  che  ha 
detto  chioma  bionda,  dir  chioma  d’  oro  : ma  gli  parve 
forse,  che  havrebbe  havuto  troppo  del  Poetico.  Da  che  si 
puo  ritrar,  che’  1 Pittore  dee  imitar  P oro,  e non  metterlo 
(come  fanno  i Miniatori)  nelle  sue  Pitture,  in  modo,  che  si 
possa  dire,  que5  capelli  non  sono  d’  oro  ma  par  che  risplen- 
dano,  come  l5  oro  \ What  Dolce  in  the  following  passage 
takes  from  Athenaeus  is  remarkable,  only  it  is  not  accurate. 
I will  speak  of  this  by  and  bye. 


NOTES 


271 


10  Ibid.  p.  182 : 4 II  naso,  che  discende  giu,  havendo 
peraventura  la  considerazione  a quelle  forme  de’  nasi,  che 
si  veggono  ne5  ritratti  delle  belle  Romane  antiche  \ 

11  Aeneid,  iv.  136  : 

A flowered  cymar  with  golden  fringe  she  wore, 

And  at  her  hack  a golden  quiver  bore  ; 

Her  flowing  hair  a golden  caul  restrains, 

A golden  clasp  the  Tyrian  robe  sustains.  Dryben.  R.  P. 

12  Odes  xxviii,  xxix. 

13  EtWres,  §3,  t.  11,  p.  461,  ed.  Reitz.  Lucian,  a Syrian 
by  birth,  probably  lived  a.d.  120  to  the  end  of  the  cen- 
tury ; a very  voluminous  and  licentious  Greek  writer  upon 
a variety  of  subjects,  but  he  is  best  known  and  most  read 
as  the  author  of  Dialogues.  The  et/cJres  or  imagines,  (a 
sort  of  picture  gallery),  can  hardly  be  classed  under  this 
head. 

Walter  Scott,  in  his  description  of  the  first  appearance 
of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  happily  blends  the  ideas  of  the 
poet  and  the  sculptor  : 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 

She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 

With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent. 

And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 

And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 

Like  monument  of  Grecian  art ; 

In  listening  mood,  she  seemed  to  stand, 

The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

And  ne’er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A Nymph,  a Naiad,  or  a Grace, 

Of  finer  form  or  lovelier  face  ! 

Lady  of  the  Lake , Canto  i.  xvii.  xviii.  R.  P* 


CHAPTER  XXI 

1 Iliad , r 121. 

2 lb.  319. 

3 lb.  156-8. 

These  wise  and  almost  wither  d men,  found  this  heat  in  their  years 
That  they  were  forced  (tho’ whispering)  to  say  : what  man  can  blame 
The  Greeks  and  Trojans  to  endure  for  so  admir’d  a dame, 

So  many  miseries  and  so  long?  in  her  sweet  countenance  shine 
Looks  like  the  goddesses,  etc.  Chapman.  R.  P. 


272 


LAOCOON 


4 Let  us  remember  also  the  meeting  of  Ulysses  and 
Nausicaa,  and  the  exquisite  manner  in  which  her  beauty 
is  painted  by  its  effect  on  Ulysses,  who,  doubting  whether 
vshe  be  immortal  or  mortal,  compares  her  first  to  Diana, 
and  then  to  the  Palm-tree,  which  grew  up  in  perfect 
symmetry  by  the  altar  of  the  Delian  Apollo  ; and  dwells 
upon  the  happiness  which  such  a creature  of  beauty  must 
shed  over  parents,  family,  and  bridegroom. 

Ov  yap  ttco  tqlovtov  Xbov  fiporbv  6(pQa\/uL0icriv, 

Our5  tii/dp’ ovt€  yvmiKa * (re pas  pi  €X6t  eleropoavra. 
Ar)\cp  §77  7 rore  roiov  5A7roAAcovos  tt apa  j3 oo/acp 
$oivikos  v4ov  ipvos  avepx6pevov  ivorjaa'  k.t.A. 

Odyss.  Z 160-163.  R.  P. 

5 Et  vera  incessu  patuit  Dea.  Aen.  i.  408. 

Milton’s  Eve. 

Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  heaven  in  her  eye, 

In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 

Par . Lost,  viii.  488,  9.  It.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

1 Zeuxis,  the  most  renowned  of  ancient  painters,  who 
-excelled  all  his  contemporaries  but  Parrhasius,  appears 
to  have  flourished  about  b.c.  424. 

2 Yal.  Max.  lib.  iii,  cap.  7.  Valerius  Maximus,  some- 
times with  the  praenomen  of  Marcus,  a great  compiler  of 
historical  anecdotes — De  Factis  Diciisque  Memorabilibus , 
lib.  ix. — referred  to  by  the  elder  Pliny,  Plutarch,  and 
Aulus  Gellius.  Wrote  on  a variety  of  miscellaneous 
subjects.  He  lived  in  the  time  of  the  first  Roman 
Emperors,  but  of  his  personal  history  very  little,  if 
anything,  is  known.  Dion.  Halycar.  Art.  Rhet.  cap.  12. 
7 repl  A oyoov  i£era (Tews.  R.  P. 

3 4 G-icrigen  Blicke  5 is  the  expression  in  the  original ; it 
means  something  more  than  ‘ eager  ’,  as  it  is  usually 
translated 

You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake, 

So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old  ; 

Thro’  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage.  Rich.  II.  act  v,  sc.  1.  K.  P. 


NOTES 


273 


4 And  yet  (tho*  never  so  divine) 

Before  we  boast,  unjustly  still,  of  her  enforced  prize, 

And  justly  suffer  for  her  sake  with  all  our  progenies 
Labour  and  ruin,  let  her  co  : the  profit  of  our  land 
Must  pass  the  beauty.  Chapman.  R.  P. 

5 Which  stirred  a sweet  desire  in  her ; to  serve  the  which  she  hied, 
Shadow’d  her  graces  with  white  veils,  etc. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

6 This  remark  is  happily  inapplicable  to  England. 
Homer  has  always  been  taught  in  her  Public  Schools, 
especially  at  Westminster.  Witness  also  the  Grenville 
Homer,  the  translations  of  Chapman,  Pope,  Cowper, 
Sotheby,  Lord  Derby,  and  Mr  Gladstone’s  more  recent 
and  well-known  works.  In  France  Homer  has  never  been 
much  read  or  much  understood,  and  I am  afraid  the  same 
remark  applies  to  Italy  and  Spain.  R.  P. 

7 Fabricii  Biblioth.  Grae.  lib.  ii,  cap.  6,  p.  345. 
Fabricius  Joannes  Albertus,  born  at  Leipsig  1667.  Pro- 
fessor at  Hamburg,  where  he  spent  his  life  ; the  author 
of  many  learned  works,  the  principal  being  the  Bibliotheca 
Graeco, , containing  notices  of  the  Greek  authors  down  to 
those  who  flourished  at  the  close  of  the  Byzantine  Empire. 
He  died  in  1736.  R.  P. 

8 Plinius  says  of  Apelles  (lib.  xxxv,  cap.  10)  : 4 Fecit  et 
Dianam  sacrificantium  virginum  choro  mixtam  : quibus 
vicisse  Homeri  versus  videtur  idipsum  describentis  \ 
Nothing  can  be  truer  than  this  panegyric.  Beautiful 
nymphs  round  a beautiful  goddess,  who  towers  above 
them  all  with  her  majestic  forehead,  is  certainly  a design 
fitter  for  painting  than  poetry — only  the  sacrificantium  is 
to  me  very  doubtful.  What  has  the  goddess  to  do  with 
sacrificing  virgins  ? and  is  this  the  occupation  which 
Homer  furnishes  to  the  companions  of  Diana  ? Surely 
not.  They  wander  with  her  through  mountains  and 
woods  ; they  hunt,  they  sport,  they  dance  ( Odyss . Z 102- 
106). 

O'lr]  5’  VA prepus  eioi  /cap  oopeos  lox^oupa^ 

''H  Kara  T rjuyerou  Tvepifx^Kerov^  t)  jE pv/xavQov, 
T€pirofjLev7)  KaTTpouri  Kal  wKelys  e\d<poi(ri’ 

Trj  5e  6 * cfyta  N v/upai,  Kovpai  A ibs  alyioxoio, 
’Aypovd/ioi  7r ai^ovart. 

Pliny  would  not  have  written  of  c sacrificantium  but  of 

T 


274 


LAOCOON 


4 venantium  J ; perhaps  4 sylvis  vagantium  ’,  an  alteration 
which  would  give  about  the  same  number  of  letters  : 

4 saltantium  * would  come  nearest  to  Trai(ovcri , and  Virgil, 
in  his  imitation  of  this  passage,  makes  Diana  dance  with 
her  nymphs  ( Aeneid , i.  497-98)  : — 

Qualis  in  Eurotae  ripis  aut  per  juga  Cynthi 

Exercet  Diana  clioros. 

Spence  has  a strange  idea  on  this  head.  4 This  Diana 
(says  he)  both  in  the  picture  and  in  the  descriptions,  was 
the  Diana  Venatrix,  though  she  was  not  represented 
either  by  Virgil,  or  Apelles,  or  Homer,  as  hunting  with 
her  nymphs,  but  as  employed  with  them  in  that  sort  of 
dances,  which  of  old  were  regarded  as  very  solemn  acts  of 
devotion  ’.  He  adds  the  observation  : 4 The  expression  of 
7r ai(eiv,  used  by  Homer  on  this  occasion,  is  scarce  proper 
for  hunting,  as  that  of  44  choros  exercere  ” in  Virgil  should 
be  understood  of  the  religious  dances  of  old,  because 
dancing,  in  the  old  Roman  idea  of  it,  was  indecent,  even 
for  men,  in  public  ; unless  it  were  the  sort  of  (lances 
used  in  honour  of  Mars,  or  Bacchus,  or  some  other  of 
their  gods  \ Spence  chooses  to  understand  by  the  word 
those  solemn  dances  which  the  ancients  considered  part 
of  the  acts  of  worship.  4 And  Pliny  ’,  he  says,  4 uses  the 
word  4 4 sacrificare  ” in  that  sense.  It  is  in  consequence 
of  this  that  Pliny,  in  speaking  of  Diana’s  nymphs  on  this 
very  occasion,  uses  the  word  4 4 sacrificare  ” of  them  ; 
which  quite  determines  these  dances  of  theirs  to  have 
been  of  the  religious  kind  \ He  forgets  that  in  Virgil, 
Diana  herself  dances,  4 exercet  Diana  choros  ’.  If  this 
dance  were  a religious  dance,  in  whose  honour  did  Diana 
dance  ? in  her  own  ? or  in  honour  of  another  deity  ? 
Both  are  absurd  ; and  if  the  old  Romans  considered 
dancing  as  unbecoming  a serious  man,  must  on  that 
account  their  poets  transplant  the  gravity  of  their  people 
into  the  manners  of  their  gods,  which  manners  were 
altogether  different  from  those  described  by  the  ancient 
Greek  poet  ? Horace  says  of  Venus  ( Od . iv.) 

Jam  Cytherea  choros  ducit  Venus,  imminente  Luna 

Junctaeque  Nymphis  Gratiae  decentes 

Alterno  terram  quatiunt  pede. 

Was  this  a holy  religious  dance  ? but  I spend  too  many 
words  on  such  whims. 


NOTES 


275 


9 Iliad , A 528.  Valerius  Maximus,  lib.  iii.  cap.  7. 

He  said : and  his  black  eyebrows  bent ; above  his  deathless  head 

Tli’  ambrosian  curls  flow’d : great  heaven  shook. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

10  Plinius,  lib.  xi,  cap.  37. 

11  Idem , lib.  xxxiv,  cap.  8 : 

Ipse  tamen  corpornm  tenus  curiosus  animi  sensus  non  expressisso 
videtur,  capillum  quoque  et  pubem  non  emendatius  fecisse,  qu&mrudis. 
antiquitas  instituisset. 

12  Ibid.  : ‘ Hie  primus  nervos  et  venas  expressit 

capillumque  diligentius  ’. 

13  Analysis  of  Beauty , chapter  xi.  on  Proportion,  p.  149. 
William  Hogarth,  born  1697  or  1698,  died  1764.  In  1733 
his  genius  began  to  be  generally  recognised.  His  series  of 
pictures  in  the  Mariage  d la  mode , now  in  our  Gallery, 
contributed  greatly  to  his  reputation.  In  his  work  on  the 
Analysis  of  Beauty , Hogarth  maintained  that  the  curve 
was  the  line  of  beauty.  Lessing  reviewed  a translation  of 
this  work  by  C.  Mylius.  Berl.  1754.  R.  P. 

14  Iliad , r 210-11. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

1 Philos.  Schriften  des  Herrn  Moses  Mendelssohn , t.  ii,  s. 
23.  Moses  Mendelssohn,  born  at  Dessau  1729,  the  son  of 
a Jew,  a schoolmaster,  the  friend  of  Lessing  and  Nicolai. 
To  Lessing’s  friendship  for  him  we  owe  the  play  of  Nathan 
der  Weise , mentioned  in  the  Preface.  He  was  a volumin- 
ous writer,  and  his  writings  produced  a considerable 
effect  upon  German  literature.  R.  P. 

2 Plutarchus,  Quomodo  adolescens  Poetas  audire  debeat , 
ed.  Reiske  ; vol.  vi.  p.  61-2  : rirrov  yap  us  €i$6<ri  tl  tt epl 

TOVTUV  TTpO(T€^OV(Tl  T ois  TTOITITCUS,  £v  oTs  TOVS  <t)L\00'6(p0VS  lAiy- 

yiuvras  bpuaiv.  tin  5e  ydAAov  67 uarr\Guy^v  avrbv,  aya  ru  rrpoord- 
yeiv  t ois  7 ToiT)y<xaiv  viroypaepovTts  tt)v  TroLrjrrjK^u,  6ti  /ii/utjttjk 
xdi  bvvayis  £gtlv  avriarpoepos  rrj  ( uypaepia , Kal  yfy  ybvov 
eKeiuo  rb  dpvAAovyej/ov  clktikous  €<ttco,  {uypaepiav  yep  elvai 
(pQeyyoyev7]v  t)]v  ttoltiglp,  iroiriaiv  5e  aiyooaav  tt]>  £&>7pa</>tap* 
aAAa  npbs  rovrep  dibaaKuyev  avrbv,  on  yeypayyevy}v  aavpav , 
TridirjKOP)  t?  © epairov  irpbauTrov,  IB6vt€s  7]$ 6ye6a  Kal  Qtxvya^o- 


-276 


LAQCOOX 


jiev,  ovx  ws  KaXbv,  aAA5  bfioiov . ovcria  (Lev  yap  ou  hvvarai 

Ka\bv  yevecrOat  rb  al(TXP^v‘  n 5e  /ul/htjo-ls,  3av  re  tt epl  (pavXov , 
&v  re  7 rep!  xpTIVT^v  e(pLK7jrai  r^s  ojuoiorrjros,  i'rraive'irai • real 
rovvavriov  clv  alffxpov  aco/uaros  eiKova  KaXrju  irapa^xVi  T ^ 
TTpenov  Kal  rb  elfcbs  ovk  arredooKev. 

Still  less  will  they  pay  heed  to  poets  as  knowing  anything  about 
matters  in  which  they  see  philosophers  have  grown  dizzy. 

We  shall  render  him  still  more  careful  if  at  the  same  time  as  we 
introduce  him  to  poems,  we  describe  to  him  what  poetry  is— that  it  is 
an  imitative  art  and  faculty  correlative  to  painting  ; and  not  let  him 
•only  hear  that  hackneyed  saying  that  poetry  is  speaking  painting,  and 
painting  is  silent  poetry,  but  teach  him  too  that  we  take  pleasure  and- 
ndmire  when  we  see  in  a painting  a lizard  or  an  ape,  or  the  face  of 
Thersites,  not  for  its  beauty,  but  for  its  likeness.  For  ugly  things 
■cannot  in  their  real  existence  become  beautiful ; but  an  imitation, 
whether  it  be  in  a bad  or  good  thing,  if  it  attains  to  likeness,  is  praised  ; 
while  contrariwise  an  imitation,  which  would  give  a lovely  image  of  an 
ugly  form,  would  not  represent  what  was  suitable  or  fitting. 

3 The  fault  must  not  be  destructive.  De  Poetica , c.  v. 
vide  Note  5,  ch.  xxiv. 

4 Philos  Schriften  des  Herrn  Moses  Mendelssohn , t.  ii,  s. 
23. 

5 Paralipom.  1.  i.  720-775. 

6 One  touch  of  Nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

Tr.  and  Cressida , act  iii.  sc.  3. 

Homo  sum  humanum  nihil  a me  alienum  puto. 

Terent.  Beaut,  i.  1-25.  R.  P. 

7 King  Lear , act  i,  sc.  2. 

8 Richard  III.  act  i,  sc.  1. 


CHAPTER  XXIY 

1 Brieje  die  neueste  Liter atur  betreffend,  t.  v,  s.  102. 
These  were  published  at  Berlin  1759-1765,  under  the 
superintendence  of  Lessing’s  friend,  F.  Nicolai.  Those 
signed  F 11  and  Gr  are  by  Lessing,  the  rest  chiefly  by 
Abbt,  Mendelssohn,  and  Resewitz.  See  also  Preface  to 
this  work.  R.  P. 

2 De  Poetica,  cap.  iv,  5. 


NOTES 


277' 


3 At  a subsequent  period  (1769,  Berlin)  Lessing  wrote 
an  essay  on  the  way  the  ancients  represented  death,  Wie 
die  Alten  den  Tod  gebildet  haben , Berlin,  1769.  It  was- 
illustrated  with  engravings.  (Gurauer,  i,  37-40,  303.) 
Lessing  protested  against  the  introduction  of  the  skeleton 
which  Caylus  and  Winkelmann  seem  to  have  thought 
was  according  to  the  usage  of  the  ancients,  though  Homer 
makes  Apollo  give  the  cleansed  and  perfumed  body  of 
Sarpedon  to  the  twins  Death  and  Sleep.  ("Yttz/^  koI  Qauar cp 
bLdvfidoaiv,  II.  n 672.)  The  proper  emblems,  according  to 
Lessing,  were  Death  and  his  brother  Sleep,  and  both 
geniuses  with  an  inverted  torch.  So  Schiller  in  his  Gotten 
Griechenlands 

Damals  trat  kein  grassliches  Gerippe 
Vor  das  Bett  der  Sterbenden.  Ein  Kuss 
Nahm  das  Leben  von  der  Lippe  ; 

Seine  Fackel  senkt  der  Genius. 

No  ghastly  skeleton  at  the  bed  of  death 
Scared  the  departing  soul — no  dismal  cry — 

One  kiss  alone  received  life’s  latest  breath, 

Genius  with  torch  reversed  stood  silent  by.  R.  P. 

4 Klotzii  Eyistolae  Homericae , p.  23,  et  seq.  Christian 
Adolph  Klotz,  a Privy  Councillor,  in  Prussia ; Professor 
of  Philosophy  and  Eloquence  at  the  University  of  Halle, 
died  in  the  year  1771,  before  he  had  completed  his  thirty- 
second  year.  He  seems  to  have  been  a superficial  scholar, 
at  one  time  much  over-estimated — acta  litteraria  4 gelehr- 
ten  Zeitungen 5 at  Halle.  After  the  date  of  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Laocoon,  about  the  year  1768,  he  made  a literary 
attack  on  Lessing’s  dear  friend  Nicolai,  and  afterwards 
assailed  some  of  Lessing’s  positions  in  the  Laocoon.  Klotz 
published  about  this  time  his  treatise,  uberdie  Ahnenbilder 
der  alten  Romer.  In  a criticism  upon  this  Lessing  began 
that  series  of  attacks  which  demolished  Klotz’s  literary 
reputation.  A full  account  of  this  will  be  found  in 
Gurauer’s  Lessings  Leben  und  WerJce,  II.  2,  9 kap.  Briefe 
des  Herrn  Lessing  und  des  Herrn  Klotz  betreffend  des 
ersteren  Laocoon  und  des  letzteren  Werk  von  den 
geschnittenen  Steinen,  Leips.  1768.  R.  P. 

6 There  are  three  passages  in  Aristotle  upon  the  curious 
subject  of  our  alleged  liking  to  see  the  imitation  of  even 
an  ugly  thing.  The  first  is  in  his  Poetics , cap.  4,  § 6,  the 


278 


LAOCOON 


passage  here  referred  to  : T 6 re  yap  pufieiaQai  crvjxQvrov  rois 
avQp&nois  €K  naiScov  earl,  Kal  rovrcp  biacpepovaL  rcov  &AAgov 
£a>oov  ftn  fiLp.T]riK(i)Tar6v  ian  Kal  ras  fiaOnaeis  noieirai  8id 
fUfJL7](T6(i)s  ras  npdras,  Kal  rb  %a ipeiv  rois  pu)xi]fxaaL  n auras. 

5e  rovrov  rb  av/ifSaivov  tirl  rwv  epyoo v & yap  avrct 
AvTrrjpcios  opoo/aev,  rovroov  ras  elKovas  ras  yaAcara  rjKpL^ca/jievas 
Xaipojxev  Oecapovvres,  oTov  OrjpLccv  re  /aoptyas  roov  drifiordr gov 
Kal  veKpcov.  Atriov  8e  Kal  rovrov,  on  fiavdaveiv  ov  uovov  rois 
<piAoa6(pois  r)8iarov  aAAa  Kal  rois  dAAois  6/jlolcos * aAA’  ini 
fipaxv  Koivcovovaiv  avrov.  Aia  yap  rovro  x^povai  ras  eiKovas 
Spcovres,  on  avy^aiveL  decopovvras  yavQdveiv  Kal  avAAoyl(eaOai 
rl  eKaarov,  olov  on  ovros  eKeivos , e7rel  eav  pur)  rvxv  npoecopa- 
kgos,  ov  8ia  fjLLfirjiJia  noii\aei  rrjv  ydov^v  aAAa  5m  r)]V  dnepya- 
aiav  f)  r7]V  xpota^  '/)  5m  r oiavrrjv  nva  aAArjv  airiav. 

This  is  fairly  translated  by  Twining,  p.  107,  v.  (Aris- 
totle’s Treatise  on  Poetry,  by  Daniel  Twining,  2nd  ed. 
1812): 

To  imitate  is  instinctive  in  man  from  his  infancy.  By  this  he  is  dis- 
tinguished from  other  animals,  that  he  is,  of  all,  the  most  imitative, 
and  through  this  instinct  receives  his  earliest  education.  All  men 
likewise  naturally  receive  pleasure  from  imitation.  This  is  evident 
from  what  we  experience  in  viewing  the  works  of  imitative  art ; for  in 
them,  we  contemplate  with  pleasure,  and  with  the  more  pleasure,  the 
more  exactly  they  are  imitated,  such  objects  as,  if  real,  we  could  not 
see  without  pain  ; as,  the  figures  of  the  meanest  and  most  disgusting 
animals,  dead  bodies  and  the  like.  And  the  reason  of  this  is,  that  to 
learn  is  a natural  pleasure,  not  confined  to  philosophers,  but  common 
to  all  men  ; with  this  difference  only,  that  the  multitude  partake  of  it 
in  a more  transient  and  compendious  manner.  Hence  the  pleasure  they 
receive  from  a picture  : in  viewing  it  they  learn , they  infer , they  dis- 
cover, what  every  object  is  : that  this,  for  instance,  is  such  a particular 
man,  etc.  For  if  we  suppose  the  object  represented  to  be  something 
which  the  spectator  had  never  seen,  his  pleasure,  in  that  case,  will  not 
arise  from  the  imitation,  but  from  the  workmanship,  the  colours,  or 
s ome  such  cause. 

The  second  passage  is  a little  farther  on  in  the  same 
work  : 'H  5e  KGo/ucpbia  earlv,  &anep  etn oyev,  /al/arjaLs  <pavAo- 
ripwv  fiev,  ov  [xevroi  Kara  naaav  KaKiav,  aAAa  rov  aiaxpov 
earl  rb  7eAotov  fiopiov.  rb  yap  yeAoiov  eanv  a^apr^/ia  n Kal 
ai(rxos  dvcvbvvov  Kal  ov  (pOapriKbv , olov  evQvs  rb  yeAoiov  npo- 
aconov  alaxpov  n Kal  bLear  papLjaevov  avev  obvvrjs. 

Thus  translated  by  Twining 

Comedy,  as  was  said  before,  is  an  imitation  of  bad  characters  ; bad, 
not  with  respect  to  every  sort  of  vice,  but  to  the  ridiculous  only,  as 
being  a species  of  turpitude  or  deformity  ; since  it  may  be  defined  to 


NOTES 


279 


be  & fault  or  deformity  of  such  a sorb  as  is  neither  painful  nor  destruc- 
tive. A ridiculous  face,  for  example,  is  something  ugly  and  distorted, 
but  not  so  as  to  cause  pain. 

The  third  and,  I think,  the  most  remarkable  passage  is 
in  his  Rhetoric  ; ’Eire}  de  rb  pavQaveiv  re  rjbv  Kal  rb  Oavjud- 
{eiv,  /cal  ra  roidSe  avayKp  pfiea  elvai  oiov  t6  re  fxep.ipipfj.hov, 
Sbcnrep  ypacpiK ^ Kal  avbpiavToiroua  Kal  iroipriK^],  Kal  tcclv  % tiv 
ev  pepippvevov  p,  kolv  p prj  pbb  avro  rb  pepippphov  ov  yap 
h ri  rovrcp  xa'LPeii  aWh  <rv\\oyi(rp6s  effnv  oti  rovro  e/ceiVo, 
facrre  pavQaveiv  rt  crvpfialvei.  Rhet.  1.  1,  11,  23, 

But  since  learning  and  admiration  and  such  things  are  pleasant,  so 
must  also  be  pleasant  both  a work  of  imitation,  as  in  painting,  sculp- 
ture, and  poetry,  and  everything  which  is  a good  imitation,  even  if  the 
object  imitated  be  not  pleasant : for  the  pleasure  does  not  arise  on  this 
account,  but  there  is  a process  of  reasoning,  ‘ this  represents  that  ’,  so 
that  some  knowledge  is  acquired. 

The  inference  from  all  these  passages  taken  together  is 
not  so  hostile  to  Lessing’s  position  as  at  first  sight  might 
appear.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

i A strong  confirmation  of  the  doctrine,  that  all  pleasure  is  a reflex 
of  activity,  and  that  the  free  energy  of  every  power  is  pleasurable,  is 
derived  from  the  phaenomena  presented  by  those  affections  which  we 
emphatically  denominate  the  painful.  . . . Take,  for  example,  in  the 
first  place,  the  affection  of  grief — the  sorrow  we  feel  in  the  loss  of  a 
beloved  object.  Is  the  affection  unaccompanied  with  pleasure?  So 
far  is  this  from  being  the  case,  that  the  pleasure  so  greatly  pre- 
dominates over  the  pain  as  to  produce  a mixed  emotion,  which  is  far 
more  pleasurable  than  any  other  of  which  the  wounded  heart  is  sus- 
ceptible. It  is  expressly  stated  by  the  younger  Pliny,  in  a pissage 
which  commences  with  these  words:  ‘Est  quaedam  etiam  dolendi 
voluptas  ’,  etc.  ‘ This  has  also  been  frequently  signalised  by  the  poets 
— of  whom  the  author  cites  several.  Sir  William  Hamilton’s  Lectures 
on  Metaphysics , vol.  ii.  pp.  481,  482.  R.  P. 

Dante  expresses  an  exactly  opposite  opinion 

Nessun  raaggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria.  Inf  v.  121-3. 

Petrarch  has  the  same  thought 

Con  dolor  rimembrando  il  tempo  lieto. 

Sonetti , etc,  In  Morte  di  Laura  Sestina.  Cant.  46. 


280 


LAOCOON 


The  converse  may  also  be  true 

Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit.  R.  P. 

2 Ne<£>eA<u,  169-173 

M.  But  lately  of  a thought  magnificent 

A Lizard  robbed  him.  St.  How?  I pray  thee,  tell  me. 

M.  As  he  was  contemplating  with  open  mouth 
The  ways  and  changes  of  the  varying  moon, 

A Lizard  from  the  roof  dropped  filth  upon  him. 

St.  Oh  clever  Lizard  that  could  foul  the  mouth 
Of  Socrates. 

The  classical  reader  will  remember  the  misfortune  which 
befell  Gorgias,  and  his  remarkable  expostulation  with  the 
swallow  or  nightingale  which  caused  it,  in  the  third  book 
of  Aristotle’s  Rhetoric,  c.  4,  § 3.  R.  P. 

3 The  Connoisseur,  vol.  i.  No.  21.  The  whole  passage  is 
copied  from  the  English  into  the  notes  by  the  author ; 
but  as,  in  my  opinion,  the  disgusting  entirely  absorbs  the 
ridiculous,  I will  not  inflict  a repetition  and  expansion 
of  the  description  in  the  text  upon  my  readers.  The 
Connoisseur  ‘by  Mr.  Town’,  consisting  of  140  numbers, 
was  written  almost  entirely  by  Colman  and  Thornton — 
four  volumes,  published  in  1761.  I do  not  believe  Lord 
Chesterfield  wrote  in  it ; he  died  a.d.  1773.  R.P. 

4 Scut.  Hercul.  266.  Achlys,  ’AxAvs,  Caligo,  is  the 
name  in  Hesiod  of  the  personification  of  wretchedness,  as 
represented  on  the  shield  of  Hercules.  Hesiod,  one 
of  the  earliest  Greek  poets,  is  supposed  to  have  lived 
at  least  one  hundred  years  later  than  Homer,  about  B.c. 
850.  His  greatest  work  was  vEp7a  kol\  'Hpiepcu.  The  5 A(nrls 
'HpaitXtovs,  scutum  Herculis,  referred  to  in  the  text,  is 
thought  to  have  been  part  of  a larger  work.  There  is  a 
translation  of  The  Remains  of  Hesiod  into  English  verse, 
by  C.  A.  Elton,  1812.  R.  P. 

5 n epl  "Tif/ovs,  riirifia  -t) , p.  15,  ed.  T.  Fabri. — Longinus, 
Dionysius  Cassius,  a Greek  philosopher  of  great  reputa- 
tion, who  flourished  in  the  third  century  of  the  Christian 
Era;  born  about  a.d.  213,  died  a.d.  273.  He  spent  a 
considerable  part  of  his  life  at  Athens,  where  his  lectures 
were  celebrated,  and  his  best  works  written.  His  thorough 
knowledge  of  Palmyra  and  his  ardent  admiration  for  Plato, 
led  him,  when  he  went  to  the  East  and  became  the  trusted 
adviser  of  Queen  Zenobia  of  Palmyra,  to  exhort  her  to 


NOTES 


281 


shake  off  the  Roman  yoke,  which  she  vainly  tried  to  do. 
Aurelian  destroyed  Palmyra,  and  put  to  death  Longinus. 
Longinus  is  (Homerically  speaking)  a head  and  shoulders 
higher  than  the  philosophers  of  his  time.  His  work  on 
the  sublime,  FTepl  "Yi/zous,  referred  to  in  the  text,  is  ex- 
tremely eloquent  and  beautiful.  R.  P.  ■ 


Shakspere  gives  them  to  his  monster  Caliban. 


7 


And  I with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig  nuts. 

Tempest , act  ii,  sc.  2. 


Philoct.  31-39  : 


NE.  I see  no  trace  of  human  creature  here. 

OD.  Nor  foo£,  nor  household  implements  to  cook  it. 
NE.  A mass  of  leaves  heaped  up  to  form  a couch. 

OD.  All  bare  besides.  NauKht  else  beneath  the  roof. 
NE.  A bowl  made  all  of  wood,  the  workmanship 
Of  some  rude  hand  ; see  too  some  firewood. 

OD.  And  this  is  all  the  treasure  that  he  hath. 

NE.  Alas  ! alas!  these  reeking  rags  behold, 

The  solace  of  his  wounds,  laid  here  to  dry.  R P. 


8  Aeneid,  ii,  277. 


R.  P. 


9 Metamor'ph.  vi,  387 

The  skin  was  rent  from  off  the  shrieking  wretch, 

And  he  was  all  one  wound.*  The  blood 

Flowed  all  around,  while  the  discovered  nerves 

Lay  open  and  the  palpitating  veins 

Quivered  without  their  covering,  you  might  see 

Bowels  protruding  from  their  place, — the  fibres 

Transparent  in  his  breast  you  might  have  counted.  R.  P„ 

10  Ibid.  viii.  810 

To  her  far  off, 

To  her  the  goddess’s  commands  he  bears  ; 

A while  delaying,  and  while  distant  still, 

But  now  arrived,  she  seemed  at  once  to  feel 
The  pangs  of  hunger.  R.  P. 


11  Hym.  in  Cererem.  111-116. 

12  Argonaut,  ii.  228-33.  Apollonius  Rhodius,  bom 
about  B.c.  235,  flourished  under  Ptolemy  Philopetor  (b.c. 
224-221),  and  Ptolemy  Epiphanes  (b.c.  204-181).  He 
lived  at  first  in  Alexandria,  which  he  deserted  for  Rhodes  ; 
but  he  afterwards  returned  to  Alexandria,  where  he  died 

* But  Shakspere  excites  no  disgust  when  he  says  of  Coriolanus 
from  face  to  foot, 

He  was  a thing  of  blood.  Act  ii,  sc.  2.  R.  P. 


282 


LAOCOON 


chief  librarian  of  the  Museum.  His  Argonautica , ‘ The 
Expedition  of  the  Argonauts’,  consists  of  four  books. 
Valerius  Flaccus  was  his  Homan  imitator. 

Even  from  the  trifling  food  that  they  may  leave 
Rises  a foul  intolerable  smell, 

Such  as  no  mortal  could  endure  to  face. 

Not  had  he  heart  of  beaten  adamant, 

But  bitter  need  of  food  compelleth  me 

To  stay,  and  staying  fill  my  wretched  maw.  R.  P. 

is  Tu  dei  saper  ch’  io  fui  T conte  Ugolino, 

E questi  1’  arcivescovo  Ruggieri. 

Or  ti  dir6  perch’  i son  tal  vicino. 

Che  per  1’  effetto  de’  suoi  ma’  pensieri, 

Fidandomi  di  lui,  io  fossi  preso 
E poscia  morto,  dir  non  e mestieri. 

Perd  quel  che  non  puoi  avere  inteso, 

Ciod  come  la  morte  mia  fu  cruda, 

Udirai ; e saprai  se  m’  ha  offeso. 

Breve  pertugio  dentro  dalla  muda, 

La  qual  per  me  ha  ’1  titol  della  fame, 

E ’n  che  conviene  ancor  ch’  altri  si  chiuda, 

M’  avea  mostrato  per  lo  suo  forame 
Piu  lune  gia ; quand’  io  feci  T inal  sonno, 

Che  del  futuro  mi  squarcid  ’1  velame. 

Questi  pareva  a me  maestro  e donno, 

Cacciando  ’1  lupo  e i lupieini  al  monte, 

Per  che  i Pisan  veder  Lucca  non  ponno. 

Con  cagne  magre,  studiose  e conte, 

Gualandi  con  Sismondi  e con  Lanfranchi 
S’  avea  messi  dinanzi  dalla  fronte. 

In  picciol  corso  mi  pareano  stanchi 
Lo  padre  e i figli ; e con  1’  agute  sane 
Mi  parea  lor  veder  fender  li  fianchi. 

Quando  fui  desto  innanzi  la  dimane, 

Pianger  senti’  fra  ’1  sonno  i miei  figluoli, 

Ch’  eran  meco,  e dimandar  del  pane. 

Ben  sei  crudel,  se  tu  gia  non  ti  duoli, 

Pensando  ci6  che  ’1  mio  cor  s’  annunziava  ; 

E se  non  piangi,  di  che  pianger  suoli? 

Gia  eran  desti ; e 1’  ora  s’  appressava 
Che  ’1  cibo  ne  soleva  essere  addotto, 

E per  suo  sogno  ciascun  dubitava  ; 

Ed  io  senti’  chiovar  1’  uscio  di  sotto 
All’  orribile  torre  ; ond’  io  guardai 
Nel  viso  a’  miei  figliuoi  senza  far  motto. 

Io  non  piangeva ; si  dentro  impietrai. 

Piangevan  elli ; ed  Anselmuccio  mio 
Disse  : Tu  guardi  si  padre : che  hai? 

Pereid  non  lacrimai,  ne  rispos’  io 
Tutto  quel  giorno,  ne  la  notte  appresso, 

Infin  che  1’  altro  sol  nel  mondo  uscio. 

Com’  un  poco  di  raggio  si  fu  messo 
Nel  doloroso  carcere,  ed  io  scorsi 


NOTES 


283 


Per  quattro  visi  lo  mio  aspetto  stesso  ; 

Ambo  le  mani  per  dolor  mi  morsi. 

E quei,  pensando  ch’  io  ’1  fessi  per  voglia 
Di  manicar,  di  subito  levorsi, 

E disser  : Padre,  assai  ci  lia  men  doglia, 

Se  tu  mangi  di  noi : tu  ne  vestisti 
Queste  mi  sere  carni,  e tu  ne  spoglia. 

Quetaimi  allor,  per  non  fargli  pm  tristi : 

Quel  di  e 1’  altro  stemmo  tutti  muti. 

Ahi  dura  terra,  perch6  non  t’  apristi  ? 

Posciache  fummo  al  quarto  di  venuti, 

Gaddo  mi  si  gett6  disteso  a’  piedi, 

Dicendo  : Padre  mio,  che  non  nr  aiuti? 

Quivi  mori.  E come  tu  me  vedi 

Yid’  io  li  tre  cascar  ad  uno  ad  uno 

Tra  1 quinto  di  e 1 sesto : ond’  io  mi  diedi 

Gia  cieeo  a brancolar  sopra  ciascuno, 

E tre  di  gli  chiamai,  poiche  e’  fur  morti ; 

Poscia,  phi  che  il  dolor,  pot6  il  digiuno. 

Quand’  ebbe  detto  cid,  con  gli  occhi  torti 
Riprese  1 teschio  misero  co’  denti, 

Che  furo  all’  osso,  come  d’  un  can,  forti. 

Dante,  La  Divina  Commedia,  Inf.  xxxiii.  13-78. 


„ . . ‘ Know  I was  on  earth 

Count  Ugolino,  and  the  Archbishop  he 
Ruggieri.  Why  I neighbour  him  so  close, 

Now  list.  That  through  effect  of  his  ill  thoughts 
In  him  my  trust  reposing,  I was  ta’en 
And  after  murder’d,  need  is  not  I tell. 

What  therefore  thou  canst  not  have  heard,  that  is, 
How  cruel  was  the  murder,  shalt  thou  hear, 

And  know  if  he  have  wrong’d  me.  A small  grate 
Within  that  mew,  which  for  my  sake  the  name 
Of  famine  bears,  where  others  yet  must  pine, 
Already  through  its  opening  several  moons 
Had  shown  me,  when  I slept  the  evil  sleep 
That  from  the  future  tore  the  curtain  off. 

This  one  methought,  as  master  of  the  sport, 

Rode  forth  to  chase  the  gaunt  wolf  and  his  whelps 
Unto  the  mountain  which  forbids  the  sight 
Of  Lucca  to  the  Pisan.  With  lean  brachs 
Inquisitive  and  keen,  before  him  ranged 
Lanfranchi  with  Sismondi  and  Gualandi. 

After  short  course  the  father  and  the  sons 
Seem’d  tired  and  lagging,  and  methought  I saw 
The  sharp  tusks  gore  their  sides.  When  I awoke 
Before  the  dawn,  amid  their  sleep  I heard 
My  sons  (for  they  were  with  me)  weep  and  ask 
For  bread.  Right  cruel  art  thou,  if  no  pang 
Thou  feel  at  thinking  what  my  heart  foretold  ; 
And  if  not  now,  why  use  thy  tears  to  flow  ? 

Now  had  they  waken’d  ; and  the  hour  drew  near 
When  they  were  wont  to  bring  us  food  ; the  mind 
Of  each  misgave  him  through  his  dream,  and  I 


284 


LAOCOON 


Heard  at  its  outlet  underneath  lock’d  up 

The  horrible  tower  : whence,  uttering  not  a word, 

I look’d  upon  the  visage  of  my  sons. 

I wept  not : so  all  stone  I felt  within. 

They  wept : and  one,  my  little  Anselm,  cried, 

“ Thou  lookest  so  ! Father,  what  ails  thee  ? ” Yet 
I shed  no  tear  nor  answer’d  all  that  day 
Nor  the  next  night,  until  another  sun 
Came  out  upon  the  world.  When  a faint  beam 
Had  to  our  doleful  prison  made  its  way, 

And  in  four  countenances  I descried 

The  image  of  my  own,  on  either  hand 

Through  agony  I bit ; and  they,  who  thought 

I did  it  through  desire  of  feeding,  rose 

O’  the  sudden,  and  cried,  “Father,  we  should  grieve 

Far  less,  if  thou  wouldst  eat  of  us  : thou  gav’st 

These  weeds  of  miserable  flesh  we  wear  ; 

And  do  thou  strip  them  off  from  us  again  ”. 

Tuen,  not  to  make  them  sadder  I kept  down 
My  spirit  in  stillness.  That  day  and  the  next 
We  all  were  silent.  Ah,  obdurate  earth ! 

Why  open’dsr  not  upon  us  ? When  we  came 
To  the  fourth  day,  then  Gaddo  at  my  feet 
Outstretch'd  did  fling  him,  crying,  “Hast  no  help 
For  me,  my  father?”  There  he  died  ; and  e’en 
Plainly  as  thou  seest  me,  saw  I the  three 
Fall  one  by  one  'twixt  the  fifth  day  and  sixth  : 

Whence  I betook  me  now  grown  blind,  to  grope 
Over  them  all,  and  for  three  days  aloud 
' Call’d  on  them  who  were  dead.  Then,  fasting  got 
The  mastery  of  grief ! ’ Thus  having  spoke, 

Once  more  upon  the  wretched  skull  his  teeth 
He  fastened  like  a mastiff’s  ’gainst  the  bone, 

Firm  and  unyielding.  Inf.  xxxiii.  Cary’s  Translation. 

14  The  Sea  Voyage,  act  iii,  sc.  1.  A French  pirate  is 
wrecked  with  his  ship  upon  a desert  island.  Avarice 
and  envy  separate  his  crew,  and  give  an  opportunity  to  a 
miserable  couple,  who  for  a long  time  in  this  island  had 
been  exposed  to  the  extremities  of  famine,  to  run  off  with 
the  ship.  The  wrecked  men,  without  any  means  of 
sustaining  life,  see  the  most  miserable  of  deaths  before 
their  eyes,  and  they  express,  one  to  the  other,  their 
hunger  and  despair  as  follows.  [Here  Lessing  cites  a 
long  passage  from  the  play,  beginning — 

Lamure.  Oh  what  a tempest  have  I in  my  stomach  ! 

and  ending — 

Lamure.  A most  unprovident  villain. 

The  details  are  very  disgusting  ; I abstain  from  stating 
them.  It.  P.] 


NOTES  285 

15  Richardson,  Essay  on  the  Theory  of  Painting,  ed.  1773, 
p.  51.  [The  passage  is 

Every  figure  and  animal  must  be  affected  in  the  picture  as  one 
shou-d  suppose  they  would,  or  ought  to  be.  And  a;l  the  expressions 
of  the  several  passions  and  sentiments  must  be  made  wit  i regard  to 
the  characters  of  the  persons  moved  by  them.  At  the  raising  of 
Lazarus,  some  may  be  allowed  to  be  made  to  hold  something  before 
their  noses,  and  this  would  be  very  just,  to  denote  that  eiruumstance 
in  the  story,  the  time  he  had  been  dead;  but  this  is  exceedingly  im- 
proper in  the  laying  our  Lord  in  the  sepulchre,  although  he  had  been 
dead  much  longer  than  he  was ; however,  Pordenone  has  done  it. 
R.  P.] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

1 If  Lessing  had  ever  accomplished  the  full  design  of 
his  work,  and  had  finished  the  other  parts  of  it  of  which 
we  have  but  fragments,  he  would  doubtless  have  included 
music  in  its  modern  sense  in  this  bond  :  2 3  4 etenim  omnes 
artes,  quae  ad  humanitatem  pertinent,  habent  quoddam 
commune  vinculum  et  quasi  cognatione  quadam  inter  se 
continentur  \ Lessing  knew  well  the  speaker  and  the 
sentiment.  R.  P. 

2 Gurauer  remarks  that  this  passage,  which  for  ever 
united  the  kindred  geniuses  of  Lessing  and  Winkelmann, 
was  expected  by  Herder  and  others  to  be  followed 
immediately  by  a searching  and  thorough  examination 
of  Winkelmann’s  work.  4 This  expectation  was  however 
not  then,  nor  ever  afterwards  fulfilled’.  Nicolai  and 
other  friends  of  Lessing  also  expected  a quarrel  between 
Winkelmann  and  Lessing  ; the  latter  being  reported  to 
have  said  that  the  antiquarian  part  of  the  GescJu elite  der 
Kunst  rested  on  a rotten  foundation.  That  no  quarrel 
took  place  was  mainly  due  to  Lessing’s  forbearance, 
though  partly  to  a somewhat  reluctant  perception  by 
Winkelmann  of  Lessing’s  merit.  Leben  und  W erke  von 
Lessing , pp.  11,  88-9.  R.  P. 

3 Geschichte  der  Kunst , 347. 

4 Not  Apollodorus,  but  Polydorus.  Pliny  alone  mentions 
these  artists,  and  I am  not  aware  that  the  manuscripts 
differ  from  one  another  as  to  this  name.  Hardouin  would 
certainly  have  remarked  it.  All  the  ancient  editions 


286 


LAOCOON 


read  Polydorus.  Herr  Winkelmann  must  in  this  little 
matter  have  made  a slip  in  writing. 

5 ’AdrjvdScopos  5e  kcl\  Aa/xlas.  Ovroi  de  'Ap/caties  elaiv  4k 
KAeiT opos.  Phoc.,  cap.  9,  819,  edit.  Kuh. 

6 Plinius,  lib.  xxxiv,  cap.  8 : 6 Propriae  hujus  (i.  e. 
Lysippi)  videntur  esse  argutiae  operum,  custoditae  in 
minimis  quoque  rebus’.  But  see  lib.  xxxv,  cap.  10,  where 
Pliny  says,  ‘ Parasius  Ephesi  natus  et  ipse  multa  consti- 
tuit.  Primus  symmetriam  picturae  dedit,  primus  argutias 
vultus  elegantiam  capilli5,  etc.  The  reference  of  Lessing 
to  Pliny  is  here,  as  elsewhere,  incorrect.  B.  P. 

7 Lib.  xxxvi,  cap.  5. 

Beyond  these,  there  are  not  many  sculptors  of  high  repute,  for  in 
the  case  of  several  works  of  very  great  excellence,  the  number  of 
artists  that  have  been  engaged  upon  them  has  proved  a considerable 
obstacle  to  the  fame  of  each,  no  individual  being  able  to  engross  the 
whole  of  the  credit,  and  it  being  impossible  to  award  it  in  due 
proportion  to  the  names  of  the  several  artists  combined.  Such  is  the 
case  of  the  Laocoon,  for  example,  in  the  palace  of  the  Emperor  Titus, 
a work  that  may  be  looked  upon  as  preferable  to  any  other  production 
of  the  art  of  painting  or  of  statuary.  It  is  sculptured  from  a single 
block,  both  the  main  figure  as  well  as  the  children,  and  the  serpents 
with  their  marvellous  folds.  This  group  was  made  in  concert  by  three 
most  eminent  artists,  Agesander,  Polydorus,  and  Athenodorus,  natives 
of  Rhodes.  In  similar  manner  also  the  palaces  of  the  Caesars,  in  the 
Palatium  have  been  filled  with  most  splendid  statuary,  the  work  of 
Craterus,  in  conjunction  with  Pythodorus,  of  Poly  deuces  and 
Hermolaus,  and  of  another  Pythodorus  with  Artemon  : some  of 
the  statues,  also,  are  by  Aphrodisius  of  Tralles,  who  worked  alone. 
The  Pantheon  of  Agrippa  has  been  decorated  by  Diogenes  of  Athens, 
and  the  Caryatides,  by  him,  which  form  the  columns  of  that  temple, 
are  looked  upon  as  masterpieces  of  excellence : the  same,  too,  with 
the  statues  that  are  placed  upon  the  roof,  though,  in  consequence  of 
the  height,  they  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  being  so  well 
appreciated.  R.  P. 

8 Boeotie,  cap.  xxxiv,  p.  778,  edit.  Kuhn. 

9 Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi,  cap.  5. 

10  Geschichte  der  Kunst,  t.  11,  s.  331. 

11  Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi,  cap.  5. 

12  Ad  ver.  7,  lib.  11,  Aeneid,  and  especially  at  verse 
183,  lib.  xi.  It  would  be  right  to  add  such  a work  as 
this  to  the  catalogue  of  the  lost  writings  of  this  man. 

13  Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi,  cap.  5. 


NOTES 


287 


CHAPTER  XXYII 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  t.  11,  s.  347. 

2 Lib.  xxxvi,  cap.  v. 

3 Consult  the  catalogue  of  superscriptions  upon  ancient 
works  of  art  (Ad  Phaedri,fab.  5,  lib.  1),  and  take  at  the  same 
time  into  council  the  corrections  of  them  from  Gronovius, 
Praef.  ad  tom.  ix.  Thesauri  Antiqu.  Graec. 

4 Prae/atio. 

Yet  lest  I should  seem  to  be  altogether  attacking  the  Greeks,  I 
would  choose  that  I should  be  understood  as  being  of  the  class  of  those 
first  masters  of  painting  and  modelling,  whom  you  will  find  in  these 
books  writing  on  their  completed  works  (works  which  we  are  never 
tired  of  admiring),  an  inscription  denoting  incompleteness,  as  ‘Apelles 
was  making’  or  ‘Polycletus ’,  as  if  the  work  was  ever  inchoate  and 
imperfect ; so  that  from  the  varieties  of  criticism  the  artist  might  have 
a way  of  escape  towards  pardon,  as  being  ready  to  correct  whatever  was 
desired,  if  he  had  not  been  cut  off.  How  modest  it  was  in  them  to 
inscribe  all  their  works  as  if  they  were  their  last,  and  as  if  in  each  case 
they  had  been  during  them  cut  off  by  fate.  Three  works  and  no  more, 
I believe,  which  I shall  describe  in  their  turn,  are  said  to  have  been  in- 
scribed, as  if  finished,  ‘ He  made’,  by  which  it  appeared  that  the  artist 
had  the  greatest  confidence  in  his  work,  and  for  this  reason  all  these 
were  the  subjects  of  great  jealousy,  ft.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

1 Gesch . der  Kunst , t.  11,  s.  394. 

2 Cap.  xii. 

3 On  this  passage  (Fuseli  remarks)  simple  and  unperplexed,  if  we 
except  the  words  ‘Caeterique  artifices’,  where  something  is  evidently 
dropped  or  changed,  there  can  I trust  be  but  one  opinion — that  the 
manoeuvre  of  Chabrias  was  defensive,  and  consisted  in  giving  the 
phalanx  a stationary,  and  at  the  same  time  impenetrable  posture,  to 
check  the  progress  of  the  enemy  ; a repulse,  not  a victory  was  ob- 
tained ; the  Thebans  were  content  to  maintain  their  ground,  and  not  a 
word  is  said  by  the  historian  of  a pursuit,  when  Agesilaus,  startled  at 
the  contrivance,  called  off  his  troops  : but  the  warrior  of  Agasias  rushes 
forward  in  an  assailing  attitude,  whilst  with  his  head  and  shield  turned 
upwards  he  seems  to  guard  himself  from  some  attack  above  him. 
Lessing,  aware  of  this,  to  make  the  passage  square  with  his  conjecture, 
is  reduced  to  a change  of  punctuation,  and  accordingly  transposes  the 
decisive  comma  after  ‘scuto’,  to  ‘genu’,  and  reads  ‘ obnixogenu,  scuto 
project&que  hastd— docuit’.  This  alone  might  warrant  us  to  dismiss 


LAOCOON 


288 

his  conjecture  as  less  solid  than  daring  and  acute.  Fuseli,  Life  and 
Writings , vol.  ii.  p.  148,  note,  lecture  111. 

Lessing  became  aware  of  his  mistake,  and  retracted  it 
in  his  Antiquarische  Briefe.  0.  Muller  ( Handbuch , 163) 
observes  that  it  is  probably  a foot-soldier  defending  him- 
self with  shield  and  lance  against  a soldier  on  horseback — 
the  figure  being  taken  by  Agasias  from  a larger  group. 
Gurauer  (2),  89-90,  note.  R.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

1 Tlepl  "Yif/ovs,  T/j.?ifjLa  t5',  edit.  F.  Fabri,  p.  36-39. 

[And  bow  the  rhetorical  imagination  requires  one  thing  and  that  of 
poets  another,  you  wiil  not  fail  to  perceive,  nor  that  the  end  of  that  in 
poetry  is  to  astonish,  and  of  that  in  oratory  to  make  clear.  Assuredly 
the  language  used  by  the  poets  has  an  extravagance  more' fabulous,  and 
every  way  transcending  what  is  credible ; but  the  best  part  of  the  rhe- 
torical imagination  is  ever  that  which  is  practicable  and  true.  R.  P.] 

2 De  Pidura  Vet.  lib.  i.  cap.  4,  p.  33. 

[Especially  when  the  end  of  the  poetical  imagination  is  to  astonish, 
but  of  that  of  painting  to  make  clear.  And  among  the  poets,  as  the 
same  Longinus  says.  R.  P.] 

3 Von  der  Nachahmung  der  Griech.  Verse,  s.  23. 

4 T /arj/ua 

[Next  to  this  is  a third  sort  of  deformity  in  pathetic  writing,  which 
Theodorus  calls  Parenthyrsus.  It  is  an  unseasonable  and  empty  grief 
where  none  is  needed,  or  an  uncontrolled  one  where  one  under  control 
is  required.  R.  P.] 

5 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  t.  i.  s.  23. 

6 Sat.  xii.  43,  etc. 

‘ Away  with  all  that’s  mine  he  cries,  1 away  ! ’ 

And^plunges  in  the  deep,  without  delay, 

Purples,  etc. 

W th  these,  neat  baskets  from  the  Britons  bought, 

Rich  silver  chargers  by  Parthenius  wrought, 

Ahu.e  two-handed  goblet,  which  might  strain 
A Pholus,  or  a Fuscus’  wife,  to  drain  ; 

Follow’d  by  numerous  dishes,  heaps  of  plate 
Plain  and  enchased,  which  served,  of  ancient  date, 

The  wily  chapman  of  the  Olynthian  State. 

Gifford.  R.  P. 


NOTES 


289 


7 Herodotus  de  Vita  Homeri , p,  756,  edit.  Wessel. 

It  should  be  observed  that  in  MSS.  and  early  editions  the  name  of 
Herodotus  is  frequently  confounded  with  Herodorus  and  Heliodorus. 
Whether  the  work  Ilepi  rrj?  *0 wpov  jSiorjfc,  is  the  production  of  a 
grammarian  of  the  name  of  Herodotus,  or  whether  the  author’s  name 
is  a mere  invention,  it  is  impossible  to  say ; thus  much  only  we  know, 
that  some  of  the  ancients  themselves  attributed  it  to  Herodotus  the 
historian.  Steph.  Byz.  s.  v.  NeW  reixos  ; Suid.  s.  v/O^pos  ; Eustath. 
ad  Horn.  II.  p.  876.  Smith’s  Diet.  v.  2,  p.  436.  R.  P.] 

8 Iliad,  H 219  : — 

Ajax  came  near  : and  like  a tow’r  his  shield  his  bosom  barr’d  ; 

The  right  side  brass,  and  seven  ox-hides  within  it  quilted  hard  : 

Old  Tychius,  the  best  currier  that  did  in  Hyla  dwell, 

Did  frame  it  for  exceeding  proof,  and  wrought  it  wondrous  well. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

9 Gesch.  der  Kunst,  t.  1,  s.  176  ; Plinius,  lib.  xxxv.  sect. 
36  ; Athenaeus,  lib.  xii.  p.  543. 

Athenaeus,  born  in  Egypt ; a man  of  letters,  a y pa/ajaa- 
tikos.  His  date  is  uncertain,  probably  between  a.d.  200 
and  300.  His  surviving  work  is  Aenruoo-ocpLaral,  usually 
rendered  a banquet  of  the  learned ; in  it  he  gives  extracts 
from  authors  whose  works  are  lost.  R.  P. 

10  Gesch.  der  Kunst , t.  11,  s.  353 ; Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi. 
sect.  4,  p.  739,  1-17. 

11  Gesch.  der  Kunst , t.  11,  s.  328. 

12  KpoKv\€y/bibs  is  ‘ a picking  off,  twitching  at  the  flocks 
of  wool  ’,  applied  to  delirious  people  in  medicine : hence 
metaphorically  it  means  ‘ a dealing  in  trifles,  a trifling  ’, 
from  KpoKvs  or  kpoktj,  the  flock  or  nap  of  wool.  Kleinig- 
keitskramerei  Gurauer  paraphrases  it,  i.e.  giving  one’s 
mind  to  trifles.  Lessing's  Leben  'and  Werke , ii.  89.  R.  P. 


U 


APPENDIX 


Certain  Notes  prepared  by  Lessing  for  a Second  and  Third 

Part  of  the  ‘ Laocoon , ’ and  perhaps  for  a new  edition  of 

the  First  Part. 

§ 1 

i.  Laocoon  : Repetition  of  Winkelmann’s  observation 
— True  cause  from  the  law  of  Beauty — Proof  that  Beauty 
was  the  highest  law  of  ancient  Art. 

II.  Second  cause : From  the  change  of  the  Transitory 
into  the  Stationary — The  extremest  moment  is  the  least 
fruitful. 

hi.  Nature  to  be  further  compared  with  the  picture  of 
the  Poet — Wherein  and  wherefore  both  stood  apart  from 
each  other. 

iv.  Agreement  of  both  : Probable  presumption  arising 
out  of  this  agreement  that  one  had  the  other  before  his 
eyes.  The  Greeks  tell  the  story  very  differently  ; hence 
the  probability  that  the  artists  imitated  Virgil. 

v.  A Spence  can  scarcely  be  of  my  opinion — His  strange 
system  according  to  which  all  merit  of  the  Poet  is  lost — 
Proof  how  little  he  understood  the  distinct  domains  of 
Painting  and  Poetry,  (1)  The  infuriated  Venus,  (2)  Alle- 
gorical beings. 

vi.  A Caylus  has  done  more  justice  to  the  Poets.  He 
acknowledges  that  the  artists  are  much  indebted  to  the 
Poets  and  might  be  still  more  indebted.  His  pictures 
from  Homer — Objection  to  the  combined  results  of  them, 
from  the  invisible  scenes  of  the  Poet. 

vii.  False  explanation,  affecting  the  order  of  rank 
which  Caylus  assigns  to  Poets  according  to  the  number 
of  their  pictures.  He  has  not  discriminated  between  the 
picture  of  which  the  Poet,  and  the  picture  of  which  the 
Painter  may  avail  himself.  He  always  takes  the  latter  : 
and  the  other  is  left  out,  wherefore  the  order  of  rank  can 
only  be  one-sided — Proofs  from  the  fourth  book  of  the 
Iliad. 


290 


APPENDIX 


291 


yin.  Reasons  why  the  picture  of  the  Poet  can  seldom 
be  the  picture  of  the  Painter.  The  former  paints  pro- 
gressive action,  and  the  latter  beings  subsisting  by  them- 
selves on  their  own  account.  Examples  how  Homer 
knows  how  to  change  these  beings  into  actions. 

ix.  Answer  to  the  objection  to  the  Homeric  shield, 
from  this  point  of  view — The  Poet  paints  expressly  that 
which  the  artist  had  intended,  and  will  not  allow  himself 
to  be  confined  within  the  limits  of  material  art. 


§ 2 

i.  Winkelmann ’s  history  of  Art  has  in  the  meantime 
appeared — Praise  of  it.  How  he  deals  with  the  epoch  of 
Laocoon.  He  has  not  the  slightest  historical  grounds  in 
his  favour  : his  judgment  is  entirely  founded  on  the  Art 
- — Pliny  appears,  when  he  mentions  Laocoon,  to  be  speak- 
ing only  of  modern  artists.  Refutation  of  Maffei’s  opinion 
which  Winkelmann  did  not  choose  entirely  to  expose  : 
and  why. 

ii.  Proof  from  the  £tt oUl  and  £ttol7](T€  that  Laocoon  is 
not  so  old  a work — Detailed  explanation  of  certain 
passages  in  Pliny. 

hi.  But  if  he  does  not  belong  to  the  epoch  which 
Winkelmann  assigns  to  him : at  least  he  deserves  to 
belong  to  it,  and  that  suffices  for  a history  of  the  Art 
which  is  to  form  our  taste — Moreover,  Winkelmann  has 
spoken  with  greater  precision  as  to  the  repose  of  the 
Laocoon,  and  he  is  of  my  opinion  that  beauty  is  the 
cause  of  this  repose. 

iv.  His  declaration  that  the  modern  poets  have  more 
pictures  than  the  ancient,  and  furnish  fewer — a comment- 
ary on  these  words  to  be  desired — Whence  the  difference 
between  poetical  and  material  pictures  springs — On  the 
difference  of  the  signs  which  Poetry  and  Painting  make 
use  of. 

v.  In  Space  and  in  Time — consequences— to  the  former 
bodies,  to  the  latter  motion — this  motion  made  significant 
through  the  media  of  bodies.  These  bodies  made  signifi- 
cant through  the  media  of  motion — Express  Painting  of 
bodies  therefore  forbidden  to  Poetry — And  when  it  does 
paint  such,  it  does  it  not  as  an  imitative  Art,  but  as  a 


292 


LAOCOON 


medium  of  illustration — So  Painting  is  not  an  imitative 
Art,  but  a mere  medium  of  illustration  when  it  repre- 
sents different  epochs  in  one  space. 

vi.  Beauty  in  particular  is  not  the  subject  of  Poetry, 
but  of  all  creative  Arts.  Homer  has  not  painted  Helen — 
But  the  old  painters  have  made  use  of  all  his  indications 
of  her  beauty.  The  Helen  of  Zeuxis. 

vn.  Of  Ugliness — defence  of  Thersites  : in  a poem — 
Rejection  of  him  in  a picture.  Caylus  was  right  in  leav- 
ing him  out.  La  Motte  not.  Introduction  of  Thersites 
into  the  Epigoniad.  Nireus  was  not  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  Greeks — therefore  Clarke’s  remark  is  false  in  his 
letters  on  Literature,  vii,  p.  1251.  N.B.  of  Disgust — 
The  Discordia  in  Petronius. 

viii.  Beauty — pictorial  value  of  Bodies — This  of  itself 
leads  us  to  the  rule  of  the  ancients  : that  expression  must 
be  subordinated  to  Beauty — The  Ideal  of  Beauty  in  Paint- 
ing has  perhaps  caused  the  Ideal  of  moral  perfection  in 
Poetry — From  it  also  the  Ideal  in  actions  has  been 
imagined.  The  Ideal  of  actions  consists  (1)  in  the  abridg- 
ment of  Time,  (2)  in  the  elevation  of  motives  and  the 
exclusion  of  accident,  (3)  in  the  excitement  of  the 
passions. 

ix.  Still  more  are  inanimate  beauties  forbidden  to  the 
Poet.  Condemnation  of  Thomson’s  pictures — of  Land- 
scape painting,  whether  there  is  an  ideal  of  beauty  in 
Landscapes.  It  is  denied — Hence  the  inferior  work  of 
Landscapes — The  Greeks  and  Italians  had  none.  Proof 
from  the  reversed  horses  of  Pausanias  that  they  never 
painted  subordinate  landscapes — Presumption  that  all 
perspective  painting  arose  out  of  scene  painting. 

x.  Poetry  paints  bodies  only  by  the  significance  of 
motion.  Artifice  of  the  Poets  to  reveal  visible  qualities 
by  means  of  motion — Examples — Height  of  a tree — Size 
of  a serpent — Of  motion  in  Painting — Why  men  only  and 
not  wild  beasts  are  there — Of  Speed. 

xi.  Therefore  Poetry  paints  bodies  with  only  one  or 
two  traits — Difficulty  in  which  Painting  is  often  placed  in 
painting  these  traits — Distinction — Poetical  pictures  in 
which  these  traits  can  be  easily  and  well  painted,  and  in 
which  they  cannot.  The  former  are  Homeric,  the  latter 
Miltonic  and  Klopstockian. 

xii.  Presumption — that  the  blindness  of  Milton  in- 


APPENDIX  293 

fluenced  his  style  of  painting — Proof,  e.  g.  from  darkness 
visible. 

xiii.  The  first  cause  was  the  Oriental  style.  Moses. 
Conjecture  : from  the  lack  of  painting.  That  what  is 
Biblical  is  not  necessarily  beautiful — Grammarians  find 
faults  of  language  in  the  Bible  : artists  may  find  faults  in 
the  pictures  it  gives.  The  Holy  Ghost  has  in  both 
instances  operated  Secundum  subjedam  matericm — and  if 
the  Revelation  had  happened  in  a Northern  Country 
there  might  have  been  a totally  different  style  and  different 
pictures. 

xiy.  Homer  has  very  few  Miltonic  pictures — They  are 
striking — but  do  not  abstract  you,  and  for  this  reason 
Homer  was  the  greater  painter.  He  has  put  his  whole 
picture  clear  and  clean — and  has  shown  a painter’s  eye — 
Remark  on  the  groups — never  more  than  three  persons. 

xv.  Of  collective  actions,  such  as  are  common  to  Poetry 
and  Painting. 


§3 

i.  On  the  distinction  between  natural  and  arbitrary 
signs.  The  signs  of  Painting  are  not  all  natural,  and  the 
natural  characteristics  of  arbitrary  signs  cannot  be  so 
natural  as  the  natural  characteristics  of  natural  things. 
There  is  much  that  is  conventional  on  the  subject — 
Example  of  the  clouds. 

ii.  They  also  cease  to  be  natural  by  change  of  dimen- 
sions. Necessity  of  the  Painter  to  make  use  of  those  as 
large  as  life — Failure  of  the  Art  in  mountainous  scenery. 
Poetry  can  produce  vertigo  but  not  Painting. 

in.  The  signs  of  Poetry  are  not  purely  arbitrary.  Its 
words  considered  as  tones  can  naturally  imitate  no  objects. 
This  admitted.  But  its  words  are  susceptible  of  being 
differently  placed  with  relation  to  each  other  : can  there- 
fore paint  different  series  of  things,  both  following  on  and 
by  the  side  of  each  other — Example  of  this.  So  the 
motion  of  organs  can  express  the  motion  of  things — 
Example  of  this. 

IV.  Introduction  of  divers  arbitrary  signs  through 
allegory.  Good  use  of  allegory  in  so  far  as  Art  by  it  is 
brought  back  to  the  perception  of  Beauty  and  is  kept 
aloof  from  wild  expression. 


294 


LAOCOON 


v.  Ill  use  of  widely  discursive  allegories,  which  are 
always  dark.  Illustration  from  Raffaello’s  school  of 
Athens  ; and  especially  from  the  deification  by  Homer. 

VI.  Use  of  arbitrary  signs  in  the  art  of  dancing — That 
on  this  very  account  the  art  of  dancing  of  the  ancients  so 
far  surpassed  that  of  the  moderns. 

vn.  The  use  of  arbitrary  signs  in  Music — Attempt  to 
explain  thereby  the  marvel  and  the  value  of  ancient  music 
— Of  the  influence  which  the  legislator  derived  from  it. 

viii.  Necessity  of  observing  limits  in  all  the  fine  arts, 
and  not  indulging  in  all  possible  extensions  and  supposed 
improvements.  Because  through  these  extensions  they 
are  led  astray  from  their  true  end  and  lose  their  impression. 
Euler’s  discoveries  in  Music. 

ix.  On  this  extension  of  modern  times  in  painting— 
Whereby  the  Art  has  become  infinitely  difficult : and  it  is 
very  probable  that  all  our  artists  will  remain  in  mediocrity. 
Influence  which  faults  in  the  adjoining  parts  of  a subject, 
e.g.  in  light  and  shadow  and  perspective,  have  on  the 
whole,  whereas  on  the  other  head  the  entire  abstinence 
from  all  these  parts  would  not  be  repulsive  to  us. 

x.  Encouragement  to  call  back  educated  artists  from 
the  old  times,  and  to  occupy  themselves  with  the  events 
of  our  own  time.  Aristotle’s  advice  to  paint  the  exploits 
of  Alexander. 

Additional  Notes  to  § 3 

A.  1.  Scattered  remarks  on  certain  passages  of  Winkel- 
mann’s  history : where  he  has  not  been  sufficiently 
accurate.  The  Antigone  of  Sophocles.  The  chalices  of 
Parthenius.  The  artist  of  the  shield  of  Ajax. 

ii.  Of  the  Borghese  gladiators. 

in.  Of  the  Cupido  of  Praxiteles. 

iv.  Of  the  art  of  casting  in  bronze  : that  it  was  not 
lost  in  the  time  of  Nero. 

v.  Conjecture  as  to  the  Net,  p.  203  [Winkelmann], 

vi.  Of  the  schools  of  the  old  painting,  and  of  the  Asiatic 
artists. 

B . Gerard  believes,  contrary  to  my  opinion,  that  Painting 
is  able  to  express  that  kind  of  the  sublime  which  is  con- 
nected with  magnitude  of  dimensions,  for,  says  he,  if  it 
cannot  preserve  these  very  dimensions,  at  least  it  can 


APPENDIX 


285 


leave  to  them  their  comparative  greatness,  and  this  is 
sufficient  to  produce  the  sublime.  He  is  mistaken.  It  is 
sufficient  to  show  me  that  these  comparatively  great 
objects  must  be  sublime  in  nature,  but  not  sufficient  to 
produce  the  feelings  which  they  awaken  in  nature.  A 
great  majestic  temple  which  I can  scarcely  take  in  at  a 
single  glance  is  on  this  very  account  sublime,  because  I 
can  let  my  eye  wander  round  it,  and  wherever  it  rests  I 
observe  the  harmonious  proportions  of  its  grandeur,  solid- 
ity, and  simplicity.  But  this  very  temple  transferred  to 
the  narrow  space  of  a copper-plate  ceases  to  be  sublime, 
that  is,  to  excite  my  astonishment,  for  the  very  reason 
that  I can  at  once  cast  my  eye  over  it  all.  If  I think  of 
it  as  executed  in  all  its  proper  dimensions,  I only  feel  that 
I should  be  astonished  to  see  it  so  executed ; but  at 
present  I do  not  wonder  at  it.  It  is  true  that  I can 
wonder  at  its  design,  at  its  noble  simplicity  ; but  this  is  a 
wonder  which  arises  from  the  sight  of  the  skill  of  the 
artist  not  from  the  sight  of  the  dimensions.  Cibber’s 
criticism  on  a passage  of  Nat.  Lee,  which  he  declares  to 
be  nonsense,  because  no  picture  could  be  made  from  it. 
And  what  Warburton  on  the  contrary  remarks  (on  Pope’s 
Prologue  to  the  Satires , v.  121).  I hold  with  Warburton 
that  the  passage  has  beauty.  But  Cibber  is  also  right  that 
it  would  not  bear  being  painted.  What  is  the  inference  ? 
that  the  criterion  is  false,  and  that  certainly  there  are 
poetical  pictures  which  cannot  be  painted. 

The  artist  must  keep  before  his  eyes  not  only  the  power 
but  especially  the  end  of  art.  He  must  not  do  all  that 
Art  can  do.  It  is  only  because  we  forget  this  principle 
that  our  arts  are  more  discursive  and  more  difficult,  and 
for  this  reason  less  effective. 

Observations  sur  Vltalie , tom.  ii,  p.  30.  In  the  days  of 
Saint  Rochus,  the  Venetian  Painters  had  a public  exhi- 
bition of  their  works  in  la  scuola  di  S.  Rocco. 

Cette  Scuola,  l’une  des  premieres  de  Venise,  estremplie  de  sujets  du 
N.  T.  de  la  main  di  Tintoret  de  la  plus  grande  force  de  ce  Maitre.  Je 
fus  singuli^rement  frapp6  de  celui  qui  represente  l’Annonciation. 
Le  mur  qui  ferine  la  chambre  de  la  Vierge  du  cotd  de  la  campagne, 
s’6eroule,  et  l’ange  entre  de  plein  vol  par  la  br6che 

This  observation  is  excellent.  As  the  Painter  cannot 


296 


LAOCOON 


express  the  spiritual  essence  of  the  Angel,  which  can 
penetrate  all  bodies  without  destroying  them,  he  expresses 
his  power.  In  the  end  he  excites  the  same  idea,  namely, 
that  such  a being  cannot  be  excluded  by  anything,  or 
restrained  by  anything,  it  may  be  on  account  of  his 
spirituality  or  of  his  power. 

Plinius,  lib.  35,  cap  10  of  Arellius  : Flagitio  insigni  cor- 
rupisset  arterri , . . . Peas  pingens , sed  Dilectarum  imagine. 
He  made  portraits  of  these  instead  of  painting  them 
according  to  an  Ideal.  Several  modern  painters  have 
done  the  same  thing  with  respect  to  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
e.  g.  Carlo  Maratti,  who  took  the  portrait  of  her  from  his 
own  wife. 

In  the  Anthology  of  the  younger  Burmann  (p.  20)  there 
is  an  Epigram  on  Laocoon  in  which  the  line 

Hinc  tolerasse  ferunt  saeva  venena  virum 

is  suspicious  on  account  of  the  tolerasse.  If  this  Epi- 
gram is,  as  appears,  made  on  the  statue,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  change  the  tolerasse  ; but  the  Poet  may  here 
also  and  at  the  same  time  intended  to  have  regard  to  the 
patience  with  which  Laocoon  endured  his  own  grief. 

Richardson  * [Theory  of  Painting ),  p.  6 : ‘ After  having 
read  Milton  one  sees  Nature  with  better  eyes  than  before, 
beauties  appear  which  else  had  been  unregarded  ’. 

And  this,  moreover,  is  the  only  real  use  which  the  artist 
can  extract  from  the  Poet.  Poems  ought  to  be  like  per- 
petual eyes  to  them  and  a sort  of  magnifying  glasses 
through  which  they  can  observe  things  which  they  could 
not  discriminate  with  their  naked  eyes. 

Page  8.  Richardson  considers  the  imitative  Arts  from 
a politico- econo mical  point  of  view,  in  so  far  as  they 
increase  the  wealth  of  a state.  It  is  true  that  the  artist 

* Lessing  cites  Richardson,  Traite  de  la  Peinture,  t.  i,  p.  9,  and  the 
whole  passage  in  Freuch.  Probably  he  was  only  acquainted  with  a 
French  translation  bearing  this  title.  But  Richardson  wrote— 

1.  The  Theory  of  Painting. 

2.  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Criticism  so  far  as  it  relates  to  Painting. 

4.  The  Science  of  a Connoisseur. 

These  are  all  to  be  found  in  one  volume  (1773),  and  Lessing  seems  to 
have  confounded  them  together,  or  probably  the  French  translation  did 
so,  and  the  reference  to  the  pages  is  generally  wrong.  R.  P. 


APPENDIX  297 

employs  few  and  not  very  costly  materials  and  out  of  them 
creates  something  which  is  infinitely  more  valuable. 

But  if  the  Administrative  Government  were  to  undertake 
the  supervision  and  protection  of  Painting,  as  if  it  were  a 
public  manufactory  ; the  destruction  of  Art  and  the  cor- 
ruption of  Taste  would  not  only  be  inevitable  but  at  last 
the  labour  expended  would  not  be  worth  as  much  as  the 
materials  worked  up  in  it. 

Page  27  ( Theory  of  P.  of  Invention)  Example— Instance 
in  which  Raffaello  has  departed  as  much  from  natural  as 
from  historical  truth.  From  the  former  in  his  cartoons 
at  Hampton  Court,  where  he  represents  the  miraculous 
draught  of  fishes  : and  makes  the  boat  much  too  small  for 
the  persons  in  it.  From  the  latter,  in  the  cartoon  of  the 
healing  by  Peter  and  John  of  the  cripple  at  the  Beautiful 
Gate  of  the  Temple,  where  he  has  introduced  columns 
inlaid  with  figures. 

But  there  is  a great  difference  between  these  two 
departures,  the  latter  increases  the  good  effect,  the  former 
diminishes  it.  To  the  natural  eye  I mean.  The  former  is 
repellent  to  all  men,  the  latter  only  to  the  learned. 

Page  31.  There  have  been  great  painters  who  have 
endeavoured  to  bring  into  one  picture  the  consecutive 
events  of  a history,  e.  g.  Titian  himself ; the  whole  history 
of  the  Prodigal  Son,  from  the  time  of  his  quitting  his 
father’s  house  to  the  time  of  his  great  misery.  Richard- 
son says  this  incongruity  is  like  the  faults  which  bad 
dramatists  commit  when  they  overstep  the  unity  of  time, 
and  make  a single  piece  last  a whole  year.  But  the  fault 
of  the  painter  is  infinitely  more  incongruous.  For, 

(1.)  The  painter  had  not  the  means  which  the  poet  had 
to  assist  our  imagination  with  respect  to  the  violation  of 
the  unity  of  time  and  place.  Perspective  is  an  insufficient 
means  for  this  end. 

(2. ) The  fault  of  the  poet  maintains  a certain  proportion 
with  truth.  When  we  are  in  the  first  act  in  Rome,  and 
in  the  second  in  Egypt,  we  are  nevertheless  in  both  these 
places  by  degrees  : when  the  Hero  marries  in  the  first  act, 
and  in  the  second  has  grown  up  children,  there  is  still  an 
interval  between  the  two  ; whereas  with  the  painter  all 
the  different  places  are  necessarily  in  one  place,  all  the 
different  periods  of  time  flow  together  into  one  point  of 


298  LAOCOON 

time,  because  we  at  once  look  over  everything  in  the  work 
of  the  painter. 

(3. ) The  poet  keeps  in  view  the  principal  thing  : but  in 
the  picture  the  unity  of  the  Hero  is  lost.  For,  as  I at 
once  look  over  everything,  I see  the  Hero  at  the  same 
time  more  than  once,  which  produces  a most  unnatural 
impression. 

Page  26  of  Invention.  Raffaello  has  made  use  of  a three- 
fold light  in  one  of  his  pictures  in  the  Vatican,  which 
represents  the  miraculous  delivery  of  St.  Peter  from 
prison.  The  first  is  the  emanation  of  light  from  Jthe 
angel,  the  second  is  the  effect  of  the  torch,  and  the  third 
is  the  light  of  the  moon.  All  these  three  lights  have  each 
their  own  peculiar  light  and  reflective  light,  and  taken 
all  together  produce  a wonderful  effect. 

This  beauty  is,  presumably,  one  of  those  upon  which 
Raffaello  came  by  accident.  As  such  it  deserves  all  praise. 
It  was  not  his  principal  design  : and  it  is  neither  the  first 
nor  the  only  beauty  in  his  piece. 

Page  34.  Annibale  Caracci  never  put  more  than  twelve 
figures  into  his  pictures. 

Rubens  in  his  resurrection  of  Lazarus  at  Sans  Souci  has 
chosen  the  moment  when  Lazarus  comes  forth  already 
alive  from  the  grave.  I believe  that  this  is  the  proper 
moment ; it  obviates  the  necessity  of  holding  the  nose, 
for  the  stench  could  not  have  continued  with  the  living 
Lazarus. 

Page  61.  Raffaello  and  Annibale  Caracci  could  not  alto- 
gether dispense  with  writing  in  their  pictures.  For 
example — however  much  Painting  must  keep  clear  of  all 
composition  which  is  not  intelligible  of  itself — there  is 
nevertheless  a great  difference  when  Raffaello  or  Caracci 
write,  and  when  any  other  painter  does  so.  Without  the 
writing,  it  is  true,  the  particular  history  represented  by 
Raffaello  would  not  be  intelligible,  but  his  picture,  as  a 
picture,  would  always  produce  an  excellent  effect.  While 
most  other  historical  painters  have  only  the  merit  of 
having  represented  history. 

Page  63.  Michael  Angelo  took  his  Charon  from  a 
passage  in  Dante — 


APPENDIX  299 

Caron,  dimonio  con  occhi  di  bragia 
Batte  col  remo  qualunque  s’  adagia. 

In  the  engraving  of  the  Last  Judgment  you  only  recognise 
the  action  expressed  in  the  last  verse.  Did  Angelo  also 
represent  the  eyes  of  glowing  coal? 

Page  64.  Of  Composition . On  the  effect  which  a picture 
shall  produce  upon  the  eye  at  a distance,  before  the 
separate  objects  can  be  distinguished.  This  is  what 
Coppel  compares  with  the  exordium  of  a speech. 

Page  66.  In  the  Notte  del  Corregio  in  which  ail  the  light 
is  shed  abroad  from  the  newborn  Saviour.  I cannot  agree 
with  Richardson  that  on  this  account  the  painter  ought 
to  have  dispensed  with  the  full  moon,  inasmuch  as  it 
would  give  no  light.  This  very  no-light  is  here  a very 
frequent  thought  of  the  painter,  founded  upon  the  notion 
that  the  great  light  must  obscure  the  lesser.  This 
thought  is  more  valuable  than  the  little  shock  which  the 
eye  receives  is  injurious,  which  shock  makes  us  more 
attentive  than  we  should  otherwise  be  to  the  thing  itself. 

What  Richardson  (p.  120,  &c.,  82,  83,  Design  on  Draw- 
ing) says  of  the  excellence  of  drawing  is  very  useful  in 
enabling  us  to  define  the  merit  of  colourists.  If  it  is  true 
that  the  artist,  when  the  difficulties  of  colouring  do  not 
distract  him,  can  advance,  with  all  freedom  of  thought, 
straight  to  his  end : if  it  be  true  that  in  the  drawings  of 
the  best  painters  we  find  a spirit,  a life,  a freedom,  a 
delicacy  which  we  do  not  find  in  their  paintings  : if  it  be 
true  that  the  pen  and  the  pencil  can  make  things  which 
the  brush  cannot  make — if  it  be  true  that  the  brush  with 
a single  liguido  in  thin  liquid  can  execute  things  to  which, 
he  who  has  to  manage  many  colours,  especially  in  oil, 
cannot  attain — then  I ask,  whether  the  most  wonderful 
colouring  can  compensate  us  for  all  this  loss  ? Indeed  I 
might  ask  whether  it  were  not  to  be  desired  that  the  art 
of  painting  in  oil  had  never  been  discovered  ? 

Page  212.  Is  it  very  probable  that  the  hope  which 
Richardson  here  expresses  can  ever  be  fulfilled  ? That  a 
painter  should  arise  who  would  surpass  Raffaello,  because 
lie  would  combine  the  Contour  of  the  ancient  masters  with 


300 


LAOCOON 


best  colouring  of  the  modern  masters.  It  is  true  that  I 
see  no  impossibility  to  prevent  this  combination  taking 
place.  It  is,  however,  another  question  whether  the  age 
and  industry  of  any  mortal  man  are  sufficient  to  bring 
this  combination  to  perfection.  The  remarks  which  have 
been  made  upon  drawing  appear  to  answer  this  question  in 
the  negative.  But  if  this  were  all,  each  artist,  the  greater 
advance  he  had  made  in  one  part,  the  more  he  would 
necessarily  lag  behind  in  the  other.  The  question  there- 
fore remains  in  which  part  we  should  wish  him  to  excel  ? 
On  the  subject  of  excellence  in  drawing  there  is  a good 
passage  p.  26,  Sur  Vart  de  critiquer  en  fait  de  peinture. 


C.  Allegory 

One  of  the  most  concise  and  beautiful  of  allegorical 
fictions  is  to  be  found  in  Milton,  where  Satan  deceives 
Uriel  {Paradise  Lost , bk.  iii.  685) 

Oft  though  wisdom  wake,  suspicion  sleeps 
At  wisdom’s  gate,  and  to  simplicity 
• Resigns  her  charge,  while  goodness  thinks  no  ill 
Where  no  ill  seems. 

It  is  in  this  way  that  allegorical  fictions  please  me,  but  to 
pursue  them  discursively,  to  describe  with  all  the  attri- 
butes of  painting  these  imaginary  beings,  and  to  found 
upon  them  a whole  series  of  manifold  events,  seems  to  be 
a childish,  gothic,  monkish  kind  of  wit.  The  only  way 
to  render  a discursive  allegorical  fiction  at  all  tolerable  is 
that  which  Cebes  has  made  use  of  ; he  does  not  narrate  a 
mere  fiction,  but  tells  us  how  it  would  have  been  treated 
by  a painter. 

The  Blindness  of  Milton 

I am  of  opinion  that  the  blindness  of  Milton  had  an 
influence  upon  his  manner  of  painting  and  of  describing 
visible  objects. 

Besides  the  example  to  which  I have  already  adverted, 
of  the  flames  which  radiate  darkness  from  themselves,  I 
find  one  ( Paradise  Lost , bk.  iii.  722)  which  perhaps  may 
also  be  adduced  in  this  place — Uriel  wishes  to  show  the 


APPENDIX 


301 


earth,  the  dwelling  of  man,  to  Satan,  transformed  into  an 
angel  of  light,  and  says 

Look  downward  on  that  globe,  whose  hither  side 
With  light  from  hence  though  but  reflected,  shines. 

You  will  remark  that  both  of  them  were  looking  from  the 
sun,  from  which  they  could  only  see  that  side  of  the 
earth  which  was  turned  towards  it.  But  from  the  words 
of  the  poet  it  would  appear  as  if  they  could  have  seen  the 
other  hemisphere  upon  which  no  light  fell,  which  was 
impossible.  It  is  true  that  we  can  often  see  both  the 
illumined  and  the  unillumined  half  of  the  moon  ; but  that 
is  because  we  are  situated  in  a third  place,  and  not  on 
the  spot  from  which  the  illuitdnation  goes  forth.  But 
the  general  effect  of  his  blindness  appears  in  his  indus- 
trious painting  of  visible  objects.  Homer  seldom  paints 
them  by  more  than  a single  epithet  because  a single 
quality  of  visible  objects  suffices  at  once  to  remind  us  of 
the  others  which  we  every  day  see  combined  with  it 
before  our  eyes.  A blind  man,  on  the  contrary,  upon 
whom  the  impression  of  visible  objects  becomes  from  time 
to  time  weaker  and  weaker,  with  whom  one  single  quality 
of  a thing  cannot  with  so  much  speed  and  liveliness 
present  to  his  mind  the  images  of  the  rest,  because  he 
has  lost  the  opportunity  of  seeing  them  so  often  in  union : 
a blind  man  must  therefore  naturally  have  recourse  to 
the  device  of  heaping  up  qualities,  in  order  to  make,  by 
recalling  various  characteristics,  a more  lively  impression 
of  the  image  of  the  whole.  When  Moses,  for  example, 
represents  God  as  saying,  4 Let  there  be  light,  and  there 
was  light  Moses  expresses  himself  as  one  seeing  man 
would  to  another  seeing  man.  It  is  the  blind  man  only 
who  would  think  of  describing  this  light,  because  the 
recollection  of  the  impression  which  the  light  had  made 
upon  him  having  become  very  weak,  he  endeavours  to 
strengthen  it  by  all  that  he  has  ever  thought  or  felt  with 
respect  to  light  {Paradise  Lost , bk.  vii.  243) 

Let  there  be  light,  said  God,  and  forthwith  light 
Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure, 

Sprung  from  the  deep,  and  from  her  native  east 
To  journey  through  the  airy  glooms  began. 


302 


LAOCOON 


Pictures  from  Milton 

i.  Of  those  progressive  pictures,  of  which  Homer  gives 
us  such  excellent  examples,  there  are  some  very  fine  ones 
to  be  found  in  Milton,  as 

i.  Satan  lifting  himself  above  the  burning  pool.  Par. 
Lost , bk.  i.  221-228. 

ii.  The  first  opening  of  the  gates  of  Hell  by  sin.  Bk.  ii. 
871-883. 

iii.  The  creation  of  the  world.  Bk.  iii.  708-718. 

iv.  The  descent  of  Satan  into  Paradise.  Bk.  iii.  561, 
&c.,  740-2.* 

v.  The  flight  of  Raphael  to  the  earth.  Bk.  v.  246- 

277. 

vi.  The  first  march  of  the  heavenly  host  against.  Bk. 
vi.  56-78. 

vii.  The  approach  of  the  Serpent  to  Eve.  Bk.  ix. 
509. 

viii.  The  building  of  the  bridge  from  hell  to  earth  by 
sin  and  death.  Bk.  x.  285. 

ix.  Satan  returns  to  hell  and  mounts  invisibly  his 
throne. 

x The  change  of  Satan  into  a serpent.  Bk.  x.  510. 

Milton  has  painted  beauty  of  form,  after  the  manner 
of  Homer,  not  so  much  by  its  ingredients  as  by  its 
effects.  See  the  passage  which  describes  the  effect  which 
the  beautv  of  Eve  produced  upon  Satan.  Bk.  ix.  455- 
466. 

ii.  Even  in  those  pictures  which  can  be  the  subject  of 
painting,  Milton  is  far  richer  than  Caylus  and  Wink  el  - 
mann  suppose  ; although  Richardson,  who  intended  to 
point  them  out,  has  been  very  often  unhappy  and 
unintelligent  in  his  attempt,  e.  g.  : 

i.  Richardson  considers  Raphael,  with  his  three  pair  of 
wings,  to  be  a beautiful  subject  for  painting  ; and  it  is 

* and  without  longer  pause 

Down  right  into  the  world’s  first  region  throws 
His  flight  precipitant  {l.  560). 

Throws  his  steep  flight  in  many  an  aery  wheel, 

Nor  stayed  till  on  Niphates’  top  he  lights  (l.  740). 

The  references  in  the  original  seem  to  be  wrong.  R.  P. 


APPENDIX 


303 

manifest  that  it  is  on  account  of  these  six  wings  that  the 
painter  cannot  avail  himself  of  this  subject.  Although 
the  picture  is  taken  from  Isaiah,  it  is  not  on  this  account 
the  less  capable  of  being  painted.  The  form  of  the 
Cherubim  is  just  as  incapable  of  being  painted.  Par.  Lost, 
bk.  xi.  128. 

ii.  The  same  may  be  predicated  of  the  serpent  advancing 
in  a perpendicular  line  [Par.  Lost , bk.  ix.  496),  which  in 
painting  would  be  contrary  to  all  laws  of  equilibrium, 
though,  as  described  by  the  poet,  it  has  a very  pleasing 
effect. 


Of  Necessary  Faults 

This  chapter  in  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle  has  been  as  yet 
the  least  commented  upon. 

I call  necessary  faults  those  without  which  there  could 
be  no  especial  beauties,  and  which  could  be  got  rid  of 
only  by  the  loss  of  these  beauties. 

Thus,  in  Milton,  the  use  of  speech  in  its  widest  extent, 
which  presumes  the  possession  of  knowledge  which  Adam 
could  not  have  possessed,  is  a necessary  fault.  It  is  true 
that  Adam  could  not  say  this  or  that,  and  could  not  be 
spoken  with  in  this  or  that  language  ; but  let  him  speak 
as  he  must  have  spoken,  and  the  grand  and  admirable 
picture  which  the  poet  presented  to  his  readers  is  lost. 
And  certainly  the  poet  pursues  a higher  end  in  filling  the 
imagination  of  his  reader  with  grand  and  beautiful  images, 
than  in  aiming  at  a general  correctness,  e.g.,  (bk.  v.  508), 
the  flags  and  ensigns  of  the  angels. 

The  theological  faults  of  Milton  are  of  the  like  kind  ; 
or  that  fault  which  appears  to  be  in  conflict  with  the  more 
intimate  notions  which  we  entertain  of  the  mysteries  of 
religion,  but  without  which  he  could  not  have  narrated  or 
rendered  present  in  time  to  us  that  which  happened  before 
time  began,  e.g.,  when  he  makes  the  Almighty  say  to  His 
angel  (bk.  v.  604) 

This  day  have  I begot  whom  I declare 
My  only  son,  and  on  this  holy  hill 
Him  have  anointed,  whom  ye  now  behold 
At  my  right  hand  : your  head,  1 him  appoint. 

* This  day 5 must  here  mean  from  all  eternity ; God  has 


304 


LAOCOON 


begotten  His  Son  in  all  eternity  : but  this  Son  was  not 
from  all  eternity  what  He  was  to  be,  or  at  least  was  not 
recognised  as  such.  There  was  a time  when  the  angels 
knew  nothing  of  Him,  when  they  saw  Him  not  at  the 
right  hand  of  His  Father,  when  He  had  not  as  yet  been 
declared  their  Lord  ; and  that,  according  to  our  ortho- 
doxy, is  false.  Will  it  be  said  that  God  had,  up  to  that 
time,  left  His  angels  in  ignorance  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
Trinity?  Numberless  absurdities  would  be  the  conse- 
quence of  such  a position.  The  true  defence  of  Milton 
is  this,  that  he  was  necessarily  obliged  to  commit  these 
faults,  that  they  were  unavoidable  the  moment  he  under- 
took to  narrate  to  us  in  an  intelligible  succession  of  time 
that  which  did  not  happen  in  any  such  succession  of  time. 
If  the  envy  that  the  evil  angels  felt  of  the  higher  dignity 
of  the  Son  was  the  cause  of  their  fall,  then  it  must  be 
supposed  that  this  envy  was  as  much  from  all  eternity  as 
the  birth  of  the  Son,  &c.  But  I think  that  Milton  ought 
to  have  imagined  a better  course  than  this,  which  is  not 
founded  on  Holy  Writ,  but  only  on  the  notions  of  some 
fathers  of  the  Church. 


§4 

The  true  end  of  a fine  art  can  only  be  that  which  it  is 
capable  of  arriving  at  without  the  help  of  any  other.* 

In  Painting  this  is  corporeal  beauty.  In  order  to  be  able 
to  bring  together  corporeal  beauties  of  more  than  one 
kind,  historical  painting  was  invented. 

The  expression,  the  representation  of  history,  was  not 
the  ultimate  object  of  the  painter.  History  was  only  a 
means  of  attaining  his  ultimate  object,  manifold  beauty. 

Modern  painters  undisguisedly  make  the  means  their 
end.  They  paint  history  for  the  sake  of  painting  history, 
and  do  not  reflect  that  they  thereby  make  their  art  merely 
an  assistant  of  other  arts  and  sciences.  Or,  at  least,  they 
make  the  assistance  of  other  arts  and  sciences  so  indispens- 
able to  it  that  their  art  thereby  loses  altogether  the  value 
of  a primitive  art.. 

The  expression  of  corporeal  beauty  is  the  end  of 
painting. 

* Pref.  p.  24. 


APPENDIX 


305 


The  highest  corporeal  beauty  is  its  highest  end. 

The  highest  corporeal  beauty  exists  only  in  men,  and 
only  in  them  by  reason  of  an  ideal. 

This  ideal  is  more  rarely  found  in  wild  beasts ; in 
vegetable  and  inanimate  nature  it  has  no  place  at  all. 

This  it  is  which  points  out  his  rank  to  the  painter  of 
flowers  and  landscapes. 

He  imitates  beauties  which  are  incapable  of  any  ideal  ; 
and  he  labours  only  with  the  eye  and  with  the  hand  ; and 
genius  has  very  little  or  altogether  no  part  in  his  work. 

Yet  I always  prefer  to  the  landscape  painter  that 
historical  painter,  who,  without  making  beauty  his  prin- 
cipal object,  paints  only  groups  of  persons,  in  order  to 
show  his  facility  in  executing  expression  alone , and  not 
expression  which  is  made  subordinate  to  beauty. 


§5 

A.  The  resemblance  and  harmony  of  Poetry  and  Paint- 
ing has  been  often  sufficiently  mooted  and  discussed,  but 
not,  as  it  appears  to  me,  with  sufficient  accuracy  to  pre- 
vent all  evil  influences  of  the  one  upon  the  other.  These 
evil  influences  have  manifested  themselves  in  Poetry  by  a 
mania  for  descriptive  painting,  and  in  Painting  by  a mania 
for  allegory.  * While  we  like  to  speak  of  the  former  as  of 
a speaking  picture,  without  really  knowing  what  it  can 
and  ought  to  paint ; and  of  the  latter  as  a mute  picture 
without  having  considered  in  what  degree  it  can  excite 
distinct  ideas,  f without  departing  from  its  proper  end, 
and  becoming  an  arbitrary  kind  of  writing. 

Apart  from  these  improper  influences  of  poets  and 
artists,  feeble  parallels  of  Poetry  and  Painting  have  often 
misled  the  critic  into  unfounded  judgments,  when  in  the 

* Hear,  however,  Sir  J.  Reynolds  : ‘ What  has  been  often  said  to  the 
disadvantage  of  allegorical  poetry — that  it  is  tedious  and  uninteresting 
— cannot  with  the  same  propriety  be  applied  to  painting,  where 
the  interest  is  of  a different  kind.  If  allegorical  painting  produces  a 
greater  variety  of  ideal  beauty,  a richer,  a more  various  and  delightful 
composition,  and  gives  to  the  artist  a greater  opportunity  of  exhibiting 
his  skill,  all  the  interest  he  wishes  for  is  accomplished ; such  a picture 
not  only  attracts,  but  fixes  the  attention'.  7th  Discourse,  pp.  420-1, 
Dec.  10,  1776.  R.  P. 

t General ; for  all  ideas  of  painting  are  distinct.  Moses  Mendelssohn. 

On  the  margin  of  the  MS.  ] 


X 


306 


LAOCOON 


works  of  poets  and  painters  upon  one  and  the  same  sub- 
ject, they  choose  to  consider  as  false  the  mutual  depart- 
ures from  each  other  observed  therein,  for  which  they 
blame  the  one  or  the  other  accordingly  as  they  have  more 
taste  for  Poetry  or  for  Painting. 

In  order  to  correct  these  unfounded  prejudices,  it  is 
worth  while  for  once  to  reverse  the  medal,  and  to  con- 
sider the  difference  which  exists  between  Poetry  and 
Painting,  in  order  to  see  whether  this  difference  is  not 
the  consequence  of  laws  which  are  peculiar  to  the  one  or 
the  other,  and  which  often  compel  one  to  tread  a different 
path  from  that  which  the  sister  has  trodden,  if  it  really 
means  to  maintain  the  name  of  sister,  and  is  not  to 
resemble  a jealous  imitating  rival.* 

Whether  the  virtuoso  himself  can  derive  any  advantage 
from  these  enquiries  which  only  teach  him  to  consider 
clearly  whither  his  mere  feeling,  uninformed  by  practice, 
would  lead  him,  I will  not  decide.  We  are  agreed  that 
criticism  of  itself  is  a science  which  subserves  all  culture, 
although  it  be  granted  that  it  gives  no  aid  to  genius,  f 

B.  Poetry  and  Painting  are  both  imitating  arts  ; the 
end  of  both  is  to  awaken  within  us  the  most  lively 
sensible  representations  of  their  subjects.  They  have  all 

* Du  Fresnoy  begins  his  Poem  De  Arte  Graphica,  by  a partial 
plagiarism  from  Horace,  De  A.  P.  361 1 

Ut  pictura  poesis  erit : similisque  poesi 
Sit  pictura  : refert  pars  aemula  quaeque  sororem 
Alternantque  vices  et  nomina ; muta  poesis 
Dicitur  haec,  pictura  loquens  solet  ilia  vocari. 

Dryden  translates 

True  poetry  the  painter’s  power  displays ; 

True  paintipg  emulates  the  poet’s  lays. 

The  rival  sisters,  fond  of  equal  fame, 

Alternate  change  their  office  and  their  name. 

Bid  silent  poetry  the  canvas  warm, 

The  tuneful  page  with  speaking  picture  charm.  R.  P. 

t * The  boundaries  of  arts  can,  without  any  detriment  to  the  fire  of 
genius,  be  separated  from  a very  clear  perception  of  the  arts,  for 
they  only  indicate  to  the  Virtuoso  from  what  he  has  to  abstract. 
They  are  only  negative  rules,  which  can  well  be  the  work  of  an  art  ’. 
Mendelssohn. 


1 The  Horatian  lines  are 

Ut  pictura  poesis : erit  quae  si  propius  stes 
Te  capiat  magis : et  quaedam  si  longius  abstes  R.  P. 


APPENDIX 


307 

the  following  rules  in  common  which  flow  from  the  idea 
of  imitation  and  from  this  end.  But  they  make  use  of  very 
different  means  of  imitation  ; and  from  this  difference  of 
means  certain  rules  for  each  of  them  must  be  deduced. 

Painting  makes  use  of  figures  and  colours  in  space. 

Poetry  of  articulate  sounds  in  time. 

The  signs  of  the  former  are  natural ; those  of  the  latter 
are  arbitrary.* * * § 

C.  Imitative  co-existent  f signs  can  only  express  objects 
which  co-exist,  or  the  parts  of  which  co-exist.  Such  objects 
are  bodies.  It  follows  that  bodies,  with  their  visible 
properties,  are  the  proper  objects  of  Painting. 

Imitative  successive  signs  can  only  express  objects 
which  are  successive,  or  the  parts  of  which  follow  in 
succession. X Such  objects  are  more  especially  designated 
actions. § It  follows  that  actions  are  the  proper  objects 
of  Poetry. 

Nevertheless,  all  bodies  exist  not  only  in  space , but 
also  in  time.  They  endure,  and  in  each  moment  of  their 
endurance  can  take  a different  appearance  and  be  in  a 
different  combination.  Each  of  these  momentary  appear- 
ances and  combinations  is  the  result  of  a foregoing  one, 
and  can  be  the  cause  of  a following  one,  and  so  each  may 
be  the  centrum  of  an  action.  Consequently,  Painting  can 
imitate  actions,  but  only  suggestively,  through  the  media 
of  bodies. 

* * This  opposition  is  more  clearly  seen  in  regard  to  music  and  paint- 
ing. Thie  former  makes  use  equally  with  the  latter  of  natural  signs, 
but  it  imitates  them  only  by  motion.  Poetry  has  some  properties  in 
common  with  music,  and  some  with  painting.  Its  signs  are  of 
arbitrary  signification,  therefore  they  sometimes  express  co-existent 
things  without  on  that  account  invading  the  province  of  painting’. 
Mendelssohn. 

t ‘ Natural  ’.  Mendelssohn. 

t ‘No!  they  express  co-existent  things  if  this  signification  be 
arbitrary  ’.  Mendelssohn. 

§ ‘They  are  more  properly  motions,  for  there  are  actions  which 
consist  of  co-existent  parts,  and  these  are  picturesque.  But  motion 
consists  only  of  successive  parts.  We  have  motions  and  actions. 
Music  expresses  action  through  motion,  and  painting  motion  through 
action.  The  former  by  means  of  natural  sounds,  the  latter  by  means 
of  space.  Poetry  has  motion  and  action  by  means  of  arbitrary  signs. 
But  poetry  has  also  immovable  actions  ; these  are  perfectly  pictur 
esque,  e.  g.  the  Homeric  similitude,  when  the  goat  herds  stand  before 
the  hearth,  and  brandish  burning  torches  against  the  savage  lions. 
The  dying  Adonis,  the  rape  of  Europa,  are  a series  of  pictures  in  which 
stationary  and  movable  pictures  are  interchanged  ’.  Mendelssohn. 


308 


LAOCOON 


On  the  other  hand,  actions  cannot  exist  by  themselves, 
but  must  belong  to  certain  beings.  In  so  far  now  as 
these  beings  are  bodies,  Poetry  also  paints  bodies,  but 
only  suggestively  through  the  media  of  actions .* 

D.  Painting  in  its  co-existing  compositions  can  only 
make  use  of  one  moment  of  action,  and  must  therefore 
choose  the  most  pregnant  one,  by  which  the  past  and  the 
future  may  be  rendered  most  intelligible. 

Even  so  Poetry,  in  its  successive  imitations,  can  only- 
make  use  of  a single  property  of  bodies,  and  must  choose 
that  one  which  awakens  the  most  sensible  image  of  the 
body  relatively  to  the  purpose  for  which  he  uses  it.f 

From  hence  is  derived  the  rule  of  unity  in  the  use  of 
pictorial  epithets  and  of  severe  frugality  in  the  painting 
of  corporeal  objects.  In  this  consists  the  grand  manner 
of  Homer  : and  the  opposite  fault  is  the  weakness  of  many 
moderns,  especially  of  Thomsonian  poets,  who  will  attempt 
to  rival  the  painter  in  a field  in  which  they  are  certain  to 
be  vanquished. 

E.  Homer  has  only  one  trait  for  one  thing.  A ship  is 
with  him  at  one  time  a dark  ship,  at  another  a hollow 
ship,  at  another  a swift  ship,  at  the  most  a well-rowed 
dark  ship.  Further  in  the  painting  of  a ship  he  will  not 
go.  But  of  the  embarking  in,  the  sailing  of,  the  dis- 
embarking from  the  ship  he  makes  a detailed  picture,  a 
picture  from  which  the  painter,  &c. 

F.  After  considering  what  we  agreed  upon  in  our  oral 
communications,  I will  improve  my  division  of  the  objects 

* ‘Poetry  may  very  well  paint  bodies,  but  it  must  not  overleap  the 
following  boundaries.  If  we  desire  clearly  to  represent  to  ourselves  a 
whole  contained  in  space,  then  we  consider — 1.  the  individual  parts  ; 
2.  their  connection ; 3.  the  whole.  Our  senses  accomplish  this  with 
such  wonderful  speed  that  we  believe  we  perform  all  these  operations 
at  the  same  time.  If,  however,  all  the  separate  parts  of  an  object 
contained  in  space  were  indicated  to  us  by  arbitrary  signs,  then  the 
third  operation,  the  putting  together  all  the  parts,  is  a work  of  great 
difficulty.  We  are  obliged  to  strain  our  powers  of  imagination  if  we 
strive  to  put  together  such  separated  parts  into  a space-filling  whole  ’. 
Mendelssohn. 

t ‘ The  poet  seeks  to  bind  together  for  ever  Action  and  Movement ; 
therefore  he  seldom  tarries  long  on  any  moment  of  time.  Inasmuch 
as  a more  manifold  variety  is  at  his  command,  he  does  not  willingly 
confine  himself  to  a less.  Therefore  he  avoids  stationary  actions 
wherever  he  can  change  them  into  movable.  The  following  well- 
chosen  examples  are  perfectly  adapted  to  this  theory,  but  they  do  not 
show  an  entire  exclusion  of  all  stationary  actions  ’.  Mendelssohn. 


APPENDIX  309 

of  poetical  painting,  and  of  painting  proper,  in  the  following 
manner : — 

Painting  paints  bodies , and  suggestively  through  bodies, 
movements. 

Poetry  paints  movements , and  suggestively  through 
movements,  bodies. 

A series  of  movements  which  aim  at  one  end  are 
designated  an  action. 

This  series  of  movements  is  either  in  the  same  bodies 
or  divided  into  separate  bodies.  If  it  is  in  the  same 
bodies  I will  call  it  a simple  action , and  wdien  it  is  divided 
into  more  bodies  a collective  action. 

As  a series  of  movements  in  even  the  same  bodies  must 
be  seen  by  repeated  glances  in  time , so  it  is  clear  that 
Painting  can  make  no  claim  upon  simple  actions.  They 
belong  to  Poetry  simply  and  alone. 

As,  on  the  other  hand,  the  different  bodies  into  which 
the  series  of  movements  is  distributed  must  co-exist  in 
space ; but  space  is  the  proper  domain  of  Painting,  so 
collective  actions  necessarily  belong  to  the  subjects  of  it. 

But  must  these  collective  actions , because  they  follow  in 
space,  be  excluded  from  the  subjects  of  poetical  painting  ? 

No  ; for  although  these  collective  actions  happen  in  space , 
yet  their  effect  ensues  upon  the  spectator  in  time.  That 
is,  the  space  which  we  can  overlook  at  once  has  its  limits  ; 
for  as  amid  manifold  co-existing  parts  we  can  only  be 
vividly  conscious  of  the  least  at  once,  so  time  is  required 
to  go  through  and  to  become  conscious  by  slow  degrees 
of  this  manifold  wealth.  It  follows  that  the  poet  can  as 
well  describe  by  slow  degrees  what  I can  observe  by  slow 
degrees  in  the  painter  ; so  that  collective  actions  are  the 
common  domain  of  Painting  and  Poetry.  They  are,  I 
say,  their  common  domain,  but  so  that  they  cannot  build 
upon  it  in  the  same  way. 

Let  it  be  granted  that  the  contemplation  of  isolated 
parts  in  Poetry  may  take  place  as  speedily  as  in  Painting 
still  their  combination  in  the  former  is  much  more 
difficult  than  in  the  latter,  and  the  whole  cannot  there 
fore  have  the  same  effect  in  Poetry  as  in  Painting. 

What  it  loses  in  the  whole  it  must  seek  to  win  in  the 
parts,  and  not  carelessly  paint  a collective  action  in  which 
each  part,  considered  by  itself,  is  not  beautiful. 

Painting  does  not  need  this  rule  ; for  in  it  the  combina- 


310 


LAOCOON 


tion  of  the  parts  first  contemplated  can  so  quickly 
disappear  that  we  really  believe  that  we  at  once  over- 
look the  whole.  Negligence  in  the  parts  is  preferable  to 
negligence  in  the  whole  ; and  it  is  permissible  and  useful 
to  mingle  with  these  parts  less  beautiful  and  indifferent 
parts,  so  long  as  they  contribute  something  to  the  effect 
of  the  whole. 

This  double  rule, — namely,  that  the  painter,  in  his 
representation  of  collective  actions,  must  be  more  con- 
cerned with  the  beauty  of  the  whole  ; while  the  poet, 
on  the  other  hand,  must  be  more  concerned  with  taking 
care,  so  far  as  possible,  that  each  individual  part  is 
beautiful, — this  double  rule  condemns  a multitude  of 
pictures  by  artists  and  poets,  and  is  a safe  guide  to  both 
in  the  choice  of  their  subjects. 

For  example,  Angelo  painted  on  these  principles  his 
‘Last  Judgment5.  Without  considering  how  much  .this 
picture  must  lose  of  the  sublime  on  account  of  its  reduced 
dimensions,  for  the  very  greatest  picture  must  always  be 
a ‘ Last  Judgment  ’ en  miniature , it  is  not  susceptible  of 
any  beautiful  composition  which  can  strike  the  eye  at 
once  ; and  the  too  great  number  of  figures,  whatever  high 
degrees  of  learning  and  art  each  may  indicate,  confuse 
and  weary  the  eye. 

The  ‘ Dying  Adonis 5 is  an  excellent  picture  by  Bion  ; 
but  it  is  susceptible  of  a beautiful  composition  under  the 
hand  of  the  artist,  because  he  has  retained,  I will  not  say 
all,  but  most  of  the  traits  of  the  poet.  The  dogs  howling 
around  him,  that  affecting  trait  of  the  poet,  would,  it 
appears  to  me,  have  produced  a bad  effect  amid  cupids 
and  nymphs. 

G.  It  is  a consequence  of  the  limits  imposed  upon  the 
imitative  arts  that  all  the  figures  are  immovable.  The 
life  of  motion  which  they  appear  to  have  is  the  addition 
of  our  imagination : Art  does  no  more  than  put  our 
imagination  in  motion.  Zeuxis,  it  is  said,  painted  a boy 
who  carried  grapes,  and  in  this  picture  Art  had  come  so 
near  Nature  that  the  birds  flew  at  it.  But  this  made 
Zeuxis  discontented  with  himself.  I have  painted,  he 
said,  the  grapes  better  than  the  boy  ; for  had  I painted 
him  properly  the  birds  would  have  been  afraid  of  him, 
and  kept  away.  How  often  a modest  man  is  the  victim 
of  his  own  chicane  ! I must  invoke  Zeuxis  against 


APPENDIX 


311 


Zeuxis.  And  had’st  thou,  dear  master,  made  the  boy 
ever  so  perfect,  the  birds  would  not  have  been  scared 
from  flying  at  the  fruit.  The  eyes  of  beasts  are  more 
difficult  to  deceive  than  the  eyes  of  men  : they  see  nothing 
but  what  they  actually  do  see  : but,  on  the  other  hand, 
we  are  deceived  by  imagination  into  believing  we  see  that 
which  we  do  not  see. 

H.  Speed  is  a phenomenon  which  relates  at  the  same 
time  to  space  and  to  time.  It  is  the  product  of  the 
length  of  the  first,  and  the  shortness  of  the  last. 

It  cannot  of  itself  be  the  object  of  Painting  : and  when 
Caylus  carefully  enjoins  the  artist  whenever  there  is  a 
question  of  swift  steeds,  to  apply  all  his  art  to  express 
this  speed  : one  easily  perceives  that  he  can  only  show 
us  the  cause  of  it,  in  the  efforts  of  the  horses  and  the 
beginning  of  it  in  the  first  spring  of  the  horses. 

On  the  other  hand  the  poets  can  in  many  ways  express, 
so  as  to  make  generally  sensible,  this  speed — inasmuch  as 
(1)  if  the  length  of  the  space  is  known  they  can  either 
confine  our  imagination  to  the  shortness  of  the  time  : (2) 
or  can  adopt'  an  extraordinary  and  enormous  measure  of 
space  : (3)  make  no  mention  of  space  or  time,  but  merely 
allow  the  inference  of  speed  to  be  drawn  from  the  traces 
which  bodies  put  in  motion  leave  upon  their  path. 

(1.)  When  the  wounded  Venus  retires  in  the  chariot  of 
Mars  from  the  battle-field  to  Olympus  : Iris  seizes  the 
reins,  urges  on  the  horses,  the  horses  set  off  and  arrive 
almost  directly  : * 

IIap  8e  oi  T pts  ifiaivev  rjvia  Aafe-ro  xePffLV' 

Matm£ep  5 ’ eAaar,  tod  8}  ovk  &kov re  tt ereo'drjv 
A hf/a  S’  €7 rei0’  'Lkovto  Qeoov  edos,  alnvv  ov. 

The  time  in  which  the  horses  traverse  the  space  from 
the  battle-field  to  Olympus  does  not  appear  to  be  longer 
than  the  time  which  fills  the  interval  between  the  mount- 
ing of  the  chariot  and  the  seizure  of  the  reins  by  Iris  : 
between  her  seizing  the  reins  and  the  driving  off  the 
spirited  steeds.  Another  Greek  Poet  makes  the  time,  so 

* Iliad , E 365 

She  mounted,  and  her  waggoness  was  she  that  paints  the  air  ; 

The  horse  she  reined,  and  with  a scourge  importuned  their  repair, 

That  of  themselves  out-flew  the  wind,  and  quickly  they  ascend 

Olympus,  higli  seat  of  the  gods.  Chapman. 


312 


LAOCOON 


to  speak,  yet  more  visibly  disappear.  Antipater  says  of 
Arias  the  prize  runner  in  a foot  race  * 

*H  yap  iq >’  xxnrX^yycov , rj  r ep/uaros  e£8e  ns  &Kpov 
TlLdeov,  /aecrcrcj)  S’  ovttot * ivl  (TTadicp 

one  sees  the  youth,  either  in  the  starting  place  or  at  the 
goal,  in  mid  course  one  does  not  see  him. 

(2.)  When  Juno  descends  with  Minerva,  to  staunch  the 
outpouring  of  blood  from  the  wounded  Mars  f 

r/0 (T(Tov  51  yepoeides  av)]p  fSep  btyQaXfiOLGiv, 

C/H fj,evos  iv  (TKOTrirj,  Kevcracav  eirl  oivoira  ttSi'toy, 

T 6cr(Tov  iTTLOpibcncovai  Oecov  inj/rjxees  Ittitoi. 

What  a space,  and  this  space  but  one  bound  ! and  it  is 
only  an  ell  of  the  whole  way,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
goddesses  have  arrived  in  the  lines  which  follow — Scipio 
Gentili  in  his  observations  upon  Tasso,  speaks  of  a great 
contemporary  critic  who  had  blamed  Virgil,  for  allowing 
Mercury  during  his  flight  from  Olympus  to  Carthage,  to 
rest  on  Mount  Atlas  : quasi  che  non  si  convemga  ad  uno 
Dio  lo  stancarsi.  But,  he  continues,  I do  not  understand 
this  reproof  : and  certainly  Tasso  who  had  no  scruple  in 
imitating  Virgil  in  this  matter,  understood  it  as  little. 
For  Tasso  makes  Gabriel,  when  he  was  sent  down  by 
God  to  Godfrey,  to  rest  upon  Lebanon : J as  Tasso  has 
imitated  Virgil,  so  Virgil  has  followed  Homer,  who  causes 
Mercury,  when  sent  by  Jupiter  to  Calypso,  to  halt  upon 
Mount  Pierius.§  In  my  opinion  Gentili  should  have  said 
to  the  critic  as  follows  : ‘You  must  not  consider  this 
halting  upon  Mount  Atlas  as  a sign  of  the  weariness  of 
the  God.  That  would  be  altogether  unbecoming.  The 
intention  of  the  poet  is  this  : he  wishes  to  give  you  a 
livelier  idea  of  the  length  of  the  way,  and  therefore 

* Anthol.  lib.  i. 

Either  at  the  starting  ropes  or  at  the  goal ; at  either  end 
Visible  ; but  never  in  the  course  between.  R.  P. 

t Iliad,  E 770 

And  how  far  at  a view 

A man  into  the  purple  sea  may  from  a hill  descry 

So  far  a high-neighing  horse  of  heaven  at  every  jump  would  fly. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

I Canto  i,  stanza  14. 


APPENDIX 


313 


divides  it  into  two  parts,  and  leads  you  to  conclude  from 
the  acknowledged  length  of  the  smaller  half  what  must 
be  the  unknown  length  of  the  other  half’.  From  the 
innermost  recesses  of  Mount  Olympus  to  Pierius  or  Atlas, 
or  from  these  mountains  to  the  Island  of  Ogygia,  or  to 
Carthage  : and  thus  the  length  of  the  way  becomes  more 
sensibly  present  to  me,  than  if  it  had  been  merely  said 
from  Olympus  to  Ogygia  or  Carthage.  Tasso  only  lags  a 
little  behind  the  old  poets,  inasmuch  as  he  chooses  a 
mountain,  too  near  the  place  to  which  the  angel  is  sent. 
From  Tortosa  to  Lebanon  is  too  short  a journey  to  enable 
me  to  conceive  that  the  distance  from  Lebanon  to  Heaven 
is  extremely  long. 

(3.)  Of  this  third  kind  is  the  description  by  Homer  of 
the  mares  of  Erichthonius  * 

A i 55  ore  fikv  GKiprcpev  iirl  (e'idwpav  dpovpuv, 

"Aicpov  6?r’  avOepiKoov  Kapirbu  Oeov  ovdk  kolt €k\ccu' 

’AAA’  ore  5^  o'xipryev  e7r’  evpea  v&ra  6a\d(r<n)st 
VA Kpov  67T \ prjyfjuuos  d\bs  tvoXiolo  0ee(TKOv. 

4 They  ran  over  the  ears  of  corn,  without  bending  them 
down,  and  they  ran  over  the  billowy  foam  of  the  sea  It 
is  philosophically  true  that  bodies  moved  with  extreme 
speed,  leave  no  time  to  the  bodies,  over  which  they  pass, 
to  receive  any  impression.  The  moment  when  the  pres- 
sure affects  the  corn  is  also  the  moment  when  it  ceases  : 
and  the  corn  must  in  the  same  moment  bend  and  recover 

* Iliad , Y 226 

These  twice  six  colts  had  pace  so  swift,  they  ran 
Upon  the  top-a>  les  of  corn-ears,  nor  bent  them  any  whit ; 

And  when  the  broad  back  of  the  sea  their  pleasure  was  to  sit, 
The  superficies  of  his  waves  they  slid  upon,  their  hoves 
Not  dipped  in  dank  sweat  of  his  brows.  Chapman.  R.  P. 

Ilia  vel  intactae  segetis  per  summa  volaret 
Gramina,  nec  teneras  cursu  laesisset  aristas  ; 

Vel  mare  per  medium,  fluctu  suspensa  tumenti, 

Ferret  iter,  celeres  nec  tingueret  aequore  plantas. 

Virgil  (says  of  Camilla),  Jen.  rii,  808. 

Outstripped  the  winds  in  speed  upon  the  plain, 

Flew  o’er  the  field,  nor  hurt  the  bearded  grain  : 

She  swept  the  seas,  and,  as  she  skimmed  along, 

Her  flying  feet  unbathed  in  billows  hung.  Dryden. 

Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  oer  the  unbending  corn  and  skims  along  the  main. 

Pope,  Essay  on  Criticism,  372-8.  R.  P. 


314 


LAOCOON 


itself,  that  is,  it  must  not  bend  at  all,  Madame  Dacier, 
who  translates  the  first  diov  by  marchoient , doubtless 
from  some  petty  unworthy  cause,  did  not  dare  to  say 
couroient  twice,  but  she  thereby  mars  the  whole  beauty  of 
the  passage.  For  this  marchoient  involves  a certain  slow- 
ness which  cannot  possibly  consist  with  the  phenomenon 
described  by  Homer. 

In  the  mean  time,  it  may  be  said,  this  rapid  uprising 
of  the  body  underneath  must  make  the  motion  somewhat 
slower,  however  infinitesimally,  however  imperceptibly. 
And  therefore,*  Homer  does  not  allow  his  Goddesses, 
when  he  wishes  to  give  them  all  possible  speed,  to  rise  up 
at  all,  to  touch  the  earth  at  all,  but  makes  them  pass  away 
over  it,  and  indeed  without  any  successive  movements  of 
the  feet,  with  legs  closely  joined  to  each  other,  because 
the  alternate  movement  of  them  appears  to  require  delay 
and  impediment.  This  peculiar  movement  of  his  God- 
desses, the  poet  likens  to  the  flight  of  doves,  as  where  he 
says  of  Juno  and  Minerva  (Iliad,  E 778) 

At  5e  (3d rrjv,  rp^pcoai  TreXeidaLV  6juo7ai, 

for  the  flight  of  doves  is  most  rapid  when  they  dart 
forward  with  motionless  pinions  as  Virgil  says 
Radit  iter  liquidum  celeres  neque  commovet  alas. 

Eustathius  indeed  thinks  that  the  comparison  of  the 
doves  is  instituted  because  the  ancients  believed  that 
the  footsteps  of  doves  could  not  be  seen.  By  his  move- 
ment with  feet  close  together  Neptune  also  was  recognised 
by  Ajax,  Iliad , A 71,  according  to  the  explanation  of 
Heliodorus,  Anath.  lib.  iii,  p.  147,  edit.  Commel. 

And  Heliodorus  remarks  that  because  this  position 
with  legs  closed  together  is  an  image  of  speed  the 
Egyptians  have  so  represented  the  figures  of  their  Gods. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  this  inference  of  speed  might  also 
be  drawn  from  the  hanging  down  of  the  arm  in  the 
Egyptian  figures : for  dimissis  manibus  fugere , said  the 
ancients,  is  to  fly  with  the  utmost  possible  speed,  and 
Aristotle  expressly  remarks,  on  eft  deovres  Oarrov  deovai 
7rapao’eiovT6S  ras  xelpas.  f 

* De  gressu  Deorum  v,  Comment,  in  Virgil  v,  lib.  1,  Aeneid:  et  vera 
incessu  patuit  Dea — et  Woverius,  cap.  1,  de  Umbra. 

t Aristot.  de  Incessu  Animantium  et  Erasmi  Adagia , p.  660,  edit. 
Francof.  1646. 


APPENDIX 


315 


Though  this  hanging  down  of  the  arms,  this  closed 
position  of  the  legs  was  not  peculiar  to  the  Egyptian 
Divinities,  but  is  generally  common  to  their  human 
figures.  Why  should  this  be  so?  It  is  certainly  not 
the  natural  attitude,  for  though  it  appears  to  be  the 
most  simple,  it  is  clear  that  it  is  the  one  most  seldom 
used  by  men  : for  which  reason  I cannot  understand  why, 
according  to  Herr  W.  (p.  8)  the  beginning  of  art  itself  is 
to  be  traced  to  the  Egyptian  forms. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  said  it  is  the  attitude  of  complete 
repose,  and  the  Egyptian  artists  considered  this  attitude 
only  as  becoming  and  expedient  in  their  immovable 
figures.  But  in  these  early  days  artists  did  not  reason 
in  this  way,  and  the  destination  of  art  was  shaped  more 
by  outward  causes  than  by  deliberate  purpose. 

Moreover  this  is  my  opinion  : the  Egyptian  figures 
stood  with  their  arms  straight  down,  and  their  feet  close 
together : add  a third  characteristic,  with  their  eyes 
shut,  and  you  have  clearly  the  attitude  of  a corpse. 
Now  let  us  remember  what  care  the  ancient  Egyptians 
bestowed  on  their  corpses,  how  much  art  and  cost  they 
expended  in  order  to  preserve  them  from  corruption,  and 
it  is  natural  that  they  should  also  have  endeavoured 
to  maintain  the  dignified  appearance  of  the  dead  man. 
This  they  especially  introduced  in  painting  and  the 
imitative  arts.  They  placed  over  the  face  of  the  corpse, 
a sort  of  mask  on  which  they  expressed  a resemblance  of 
the  features  of  the  dead  person.  Such  a mask  is  the 
Persona  Aegyptiaca  to  be  found  in  Beger,  t.  iii,  p.  402, 
which  Herr  Winkelmann  incorrectly  calls  a mummy  (p. 
32,  n.  2).  Not  only  the  face  but  the  whole  body  was 
shut  up  in  a kind  of  wooden  mask  which  expressed  the 
figure  of  the  person,  and  which  Herodotus  expressly 
designates  as  tuou  tvtvov  avOpcvnois.* 

Herr  Winkelmann  indeed  denies  that  the  oldest 
Egyptian  figures  had  their  eyes  closed,  and  explains 
the  word  yeyv^ra  in  Diodorus  by  nictantia  (see  8 Ann. 
3,  and  so  Marsham  has  translated  it,  Can.  Chron.  p.  292 
edit.  Lips.).  But  the  principal  reason  why  he  gives  this 
explanation  fails  if  you  look  closely  into  Diodorus. 
Diodorus  does  not  say  that  the  statues  of  Daedalus  had 
their  eyes  closed.  Herr  Winkelmann  maintains  it,  but 

* L.  ii,  p.  143,  ed.  Wesseling. 


316 


LAOCOON 


he  says  the  exact  contrary  : the  statues  before  Daedalus 
had  their  eyes  shut,  but  Daedalus  opened  them,  as  he 
separated  their  legs  and  raised  their  arms. 

My  explanation  of  the  origin  of  Egyptian  art  also 
explains  why  the  Egyptian  figures  are  with  their  backs 
against  a pillar.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  Egyptians  to 
lean  against  a wall  the  coffins  made  in  imitation  of  the 
figure  of  the  corpse,  and  the  first  wooden  or  stone  figure 
was  nothing  but  a coarse  imitation  of  such  a coffin. 

That  which  before  the  time  of  Daedalus  was  in  Egypt 
nothing  else  than  a religious  custom,  a mere  aid  to 
memory,  was  elevated  by  Daedalus  to  the  rank  of  an  Art, 
inasmuch  as  he  made  the  imitations  of  living  bodies  take 
the  place  of  the  imitation  of  dead  bodies  : and  from  hence 
came  all  the  fabulous  stories  that  were  invented  of  his 
works. 

Moreover  the  Egyptian  artists  themselves  must  soon 
have  followed  this  step  in  advance  taken  by  Daedalus. 
For  according  to  Diodorus  (lib.  1),  Daedalus  himself  had 
been  in  Egypt,  and  had  there,  by  his  Art,  won  immortal 
fame/  ‘No  single  Egyptian  figure  (says  Herr  W.)  has 
been  preserved  which  has  the  parallel  of  feet  closely  joined 
together  according  to  the  representation  of  some  old 
writers  ’ (p.  39).  I do  not  wish  to  cast  suspicion  upon  the 
statement  of  these  old  writers,  which  is  too  unanimous 
and  express  to  deserve  it.  But  we  should  consider  that 
the  most  ancient  works  of  sculpture,  especially  of  the 
Egyptians,  but  also  of  the  Greeks  were  made  of  wood : 
(Pausanias  Corinth,  cap.  xix,  p.  152,  edit.  Kuh.)  so  that 
our  surprise  at  having  no  such  figures  ceases.  It  is  enough 
that  we  may  still  see  the  parallel  position  of  the  feet  in 
other  works  of  the  ancient  Egyptian  Art,  as  upon  the 
Tabula  Isiaca. 

The  Egyptians  went  no  further  than  the  first  improve- 
ments of  Daedalus : the  Greeks  advanced  onwards  to 
perfection. 

J.  From  the  difference  of  signs  which  the  fine  arts  use 
is  derived  the  possibility  and  facility  of  binding  together 
several  of  them  with  each  other  in  order  to  produce  a 
common  effect. 

The  difference,  it  is  true,  according  to  which  one  division 
of  the  fine  arts  employs  arbitrary  and  another  natural 
signs,  cannot  in  this  combination  be  taken  into  special 


APPENDIX 


317 


account.  As  arbitrary  signs,  for  the  very  reason  that  they 
are  arbitrary,  can  express  all  possible  things  in  all  their 
possible  combinations,  so  considered  from  this  point  of 
view,  their  combination  with  natural  signs  is  without 
exception  possible. 

Since,  however,  these  arbitrary  signs  are  at  the  same 
time  signs  which  are  successive,  but  natural  signs  are  not 
all  successive,  for  a kind  of  them  must  be  co-existent ; it 
is  therefore  a natural  consequence  that  the  arbitrary  signs 
cannot  as  easily  and  as  intimately  be  combined  with  both 
these  kinds  of  natural  signs. 

It  is  clear  that  arbitrary  signs  successive  in  time  can 
more  easily  and  more  intimately  unite  themselves  with 
natural  signs  successive  in  time,  than  with  natural  signs- 
co-existent  in  space.  But  as  on  both  sides  there  may  be 
a subdivision,  accordingly  as  the  signs  address  themselves 
to  one  or  other  of  the  senses,  even  this  intimate  union  has 
its  degrees. 

(1.)  The  union  of  arbitrary  successive  signs  addressed 
to  the  ear  with  natural  successive  signs  addressed  to  the 
ear,  is  unquestionably  the  most  perfect  of  all  possible 
unions,  especially  when  this  be  added,  that  both  signs  are 
not  only  addressed  to  one  sense,  but  also  are  produced  at 
the  same  time  by  the  same  organ. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  union  of  Poetry  and  Music ; * it  is 
such  that  Nature  herself  seems  to  have  intended  not  so 
much  a union  of  two  arts,  but  rather  one  and  the  same 
art. 

There  has  indeed  been  a time  when  both  together  made 
but  one  art.  I will  not  deny  that  their  separation  has 
been  natural,  still  less  will  I blame  the  use  of  the  one 
without  the  other  : but  I must  lament  that  on  account  of 
this  separation  the  former  union  is  no  more  remembered, 
or,  if  it  be  remembered,  it  is  only  for  the  purpose  of 
making  one  art  an  accessory  help  to  the  other,  and  that 
no  one  knows  how  so  to  employ  them  equally  as  to  produce 
a common  effect.  Moreover,  it  is  to  be  recollected  that 
there  is  practically  only  one  kind  of  union  in  which  Poetry 
is  the  auxiliary  art,  namely,  in  the  opera  ; but  the  union 
in  which  Music  is  the  auxiliary  art  is  yet  to  be  invented  : 
or  shall  I say  that  in  the  operas  the  union  of  both  has  to 
be  considered  : namely,  the  union  in  which  Poetry  is  the 
* On  this  subject  see  some  remarks  in  Preface.  R.  P. 


318 


LAOCOON 


auxiliary  art,  by  the  Air  ; and  the  union  in  which  Music 
is  the  auxiliary  art,  by  the  Recitative  ? It  appears  so  ; 
only  then  the  question  arises  whether  this  mixed  union, 
where  in  its  turn  each  art  becomes  subservient  to  the 
other,  is  naturally  in  one  and  the  same  whole,  and  whether 
the  more  voluptuous  part,  which  is  indisputably  that  in 
which  the  Poetry  subserves  the  music,  does  not  injure  the 
other,  and  does  not  so  delight  our  ear  as  to  render  the 
pleasure  derived  from  the  other  too  weak  and  too  drowsy 
to  satisfy  us. 

The  subserviency  in  the  two  arts  consists  in  this,  that 
one  is  made  the  principal  object  before  the  other  ; but  not 
in  this,  that  the  one  directs  itself  only  in  obedience  to  the 
other,  and  that  when  their  different  rules  come  into 
collision,  the  one  gives  way  as  much  as  possible  to  the 
other.  For  this  was  the  case  in  the  ancient  union  of 
Poetry  and  Music. 

But  wherefore  these  different  rules,  when  it  is  true 
that  the  signs  of  both  arts  are  capable  of  so  intimate  an 
union  ? Because  the  signs  of  both  operate,  it  is  true,  in 
the  succession  of  time,  but  the  measure  of  time  which 
corresponds  with  the  signs  of  the  one  and  the  signs  of  the 
other  is  not  one  and  the  same.  In  music  the  single 
isolated  tones  are  not  signs  : they  signify  and  express 
nothing : but  its  signs  are  the  succession  of  tones  which 
excite  and  express  the  passions.  The  arbitrary  signs  of 
words,  on  the  other  hand,  have  their  signification  in 
themselves  : and  a single  sound,  considered  as  an  arbitrary 
sign,  can  express  as  much  as  music  in  a long  succession  of 
tones  can  render  sensible.  From  hence  comes  the  rule 
that  Poetry  which  is  combined  with  Music  must  not  be  of 
a constrained  character ; that  it  is  no  merit  in  her  to 
express  the  best  thoughts  in  the  fewest  possible  words, 
but  rather  she  must  employ  the  longest  and  most  flexible 
words  for  the  expression  of  each  thought,  in  order  to  give 
to  each  thought  as  much  extension  as  Music  requires,  for 
the  purpose  of  expressing  something  approaching  to  it. 
It  has  been  made  a reproach  against  compositors  that 
the  worst  Poetry  is  the  best  for  them,  and  it  has  been 
endeavoured  to  make  them  on  this  account  ridiculous. 
But  it  is  not  that  they  like  this  kind  of  Poetry  best 
Because  it  is  bad,  but  because  it  is  not  compressed  and 
constrained.  Now  all  Poetry  which  is  not  compressed 


APPENDIX 


319 


and  constrained  is  not  bad  : it  may,  on  the  contrary,  be 
very  good,  although  considered  simply  as  Poetry  it  might 
be  susceptible  of  more  energy  and  beauty.  But  in  the 
case  of  which  we  are  speaking,  it  should  not  be  considered 
simply  as  Poetry. 

That  one  language  is  more  adapted  for  music  than 
another  is  clearly  indisputable ; only  no  nation  will 
consent  to  allow  the  inferiority  of  its  language  in  this 
respect.  The  unfitness,  however,  does  not  consist  only 
in  the  rudeness  and  harshness  of  pronunciation,  but  also, 
as  follows  from  the  remark  already  made,  in  the  brevity 
of  the  words  ; and  this  is  not  because  the  short  words 
are  for  the  most  part  harsh  and  difficult  to  combine  with 
each  other,  but  simply  on  this  account,  that  they  are 
short,  that  they  take  up  too  little  time,  so  that  the  music 
with  its  signs  cannot  keep  equal  pace  with  them. 

Moreover,  no  language  can  be  constructed  so  that  its 
signs  require  as  much  time  as  the  signs  of  music,  and 
that  is,  I believe,  the  natural  reason  why  whole  passages 
are  rested  upon  one  syllable. 

(2.)  After  this  union  of  Poetry  and  Music,  which  is  the 
most  perfect  of  all,  comes  the  arbitrary  union  of  signs 
which  are  successive,  addressed  to  the  ear  with  arbitrary 
successive  signs  addressed  to  the  eye,  that  is  the  union  of 
Music  with  the  Art  of  Dancing,  and  of  Music  and  Poetry 
united  with  the  Art  of  Dancing. 

Of  these  three  kinds  of  union,  of  which  we  find 
examples  in  the  Ancients,  the  union  of  Music  with  the 
Art  of  Dancing  is  the  more  perfect.  For  although  audible 
may  be  combined  with  visible  signs,  yet,  on  thev  other 
hand,  the  distinguishing  measure  of  time,  which  these 
signs  require,  is  wanting,  which  in  the  combination  of 
Poetry  with  the  Art  of  Dancing,  or  of  Poetry  and  Music 
combined  with  the  Art  of  Dancing,  remains. 

(3. ) As  there  is  a union  of  audible  signs  arbitrary  and 
successive  with  audible  signs  natural  and  successive : may 
there  not  also  be  a union  of  visible  signs  arbitrary  and 
successive  with  visible  signs  natural  and  successive?* 

This  I believe  was  the  Pantomime  of  the  Ancients 
considered  independently  of  its  connection  with  Music. 
For  it  is  certain  that  the  Pantomime  did  not  consist  only 

* The  only  art  which  makes  use  of  visible  signs  arbitrary  and 
successive  would  be  the  language  of  the  dumb 


320 


LAOCOON 


of  natural  movements  and  attitudes,  but  that  it  was  aided 
also  by  arbitrary  signs,  the  signification  of  which  depended 
upon  convention. 

This  must  be  presumed  in  order  to  render  probable 
the  perfection  of  the  old  Pantomime,  to  which  its  union 
with  Poetry  greatly  contributed.  But  this  was  a union 
of  a peculiar  kind,  inasmuch  as  signs  were  not  mutually 
united  with  signs,  for  only  the  succession  of  the  one  was 
directed  according  to  the  succession  of  the  other,  but  in 
the  execution  this  last  was  repressed. 

Such  were  the  unions  which  may  be  considered  as 
perfect ; the  imperfect  ones  are  those  in  which  arbitrary 
successive  signs  were  combined  with  natural  co-existing 
signs,  the  principal  of  which  is  the  union  of  Painting  with 
Poetry. 

It  is  clear  that  on  account  of  the  difference,  namely, 
that  the  signs  of  the  one  are  successive  in  Space,  and 
the  signs  of  the  other  are  successive  in  Time,  there 
can  be  no  perfect  union  out  of  which  a common  action 
and  effect  can  arise,  but  only  a union  in  which  one  is 
subordinated  to  the  other. 

In  the  first  place  there  is  the  union  in  which  Painting 
is  subordinated  to  Poetry.  In  this  category  is  the 
custom  of  singers  at  a fair,  who  cause  the  subjects  of 
their  songs  to  be  painted,  and  show  the  painting  while 
they  sing. 

The  union  which  Caylus  speaks  of  has  more  resem- 
blance to  the  kind  in  which  the  old  Pantomime  was 
combined  with  Poetry.  That  consisted  in  determining 
the  succession  of  signs  of  the  one  by  the  succession  of 
signs  of  the  other. 

The  fact  that  Painting  makes  use  of  natural  signs  must 
always  give  her  a great  advantage  over  Poetry,  which  can 
only  make  use  of  arbitrary  signs. 

Nevertheless,  the  two  are  in  this  respect  not  so  far 
apart  from  each  other  as  at  first  sight  might  appear, 
and  Poetry  has  indeed  not  only  natural  signs,  but  also 
the  means  of  elevating  its  arbitrary  signs  to  the  dignity 
and  vigour  of  natural  signs. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  certain  that  the  earliest  lan- 
guages arose  out  of  onomatopoeia , and  that  the  first  invented 
words  had  a certain  resemblance  to  the  things  which 


APPENDIX 


321 


they  expressed.  Such  words  are  to  be  found  still  in  all 
languages,  more  or  less,  according  as  the  language  itself 
is  more  or  less  removed  from  its  origin.  From  the  in- 
telligent use  of  these  words  there  arises  what  we  call  a 
musical  expression  in  Poetry,  of  which  there  are  frequent 
and  manifold  examples. 

On  the  other  hand,  widely  as  the  various  languages 
differ  from  each  other,  for  the  most  part  in  single  words, 
yet  they  have  still  much  resemblance  in  that  class  of 
sounds  which  in  all  probability  were  the  first  which  the 
first  men  uttered.  I mean  which  are  prompted  by 
the  passions.  The  little  words,  with  which  we  express 
our  joy  and  our  sorrow,  in  one  word,  the  Interjections, 
are  pretty  much  the  same  in  all  languages,  and  deserve, 
therefore,  to  be  considered  as  natural  signs.  A great 
abundance  of  such  particles  is  certainly  a perfection 
in  a language,  and  although  I well  know  what  an  abuse 
bad  writers  can  make  of  them,  yet  I am  not  satisfied  with 
the  cold  decorum  which  would  banish  them  altogether. 
Let  any  one  observe  by  what  a multitude  and  variety  of 
Interjections  The  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles  expresses  his 
pain.  A translator  into  a modern  language  must  be  sorely 
perplexed  in  finding  a substitute  for  them. 

Poetry,  moreover,  employs  not  only  single  words,  but 
these  words  in  a certain  connection  and  succession. 
Although  these  single  words  are  not  natural  signs,  yet, 
taken  in  connection  and  succession,  they  may  have  the 
force  of  natural  signs.  For  instance,  when  the  words 
follow  in  the  same  order  and  succession  as  the  things 
themselves  which  they  express.  This  is  another  poetical 
artifice  which  has  not  been  sufficiently  investigated,  and 
which  deserves  to  be  illustrated  by  examples. 

What  has  been  said  proves  that  Poetry  is  not  alto- 
gether deficient  in  natural  signs.  But  she  has  a means 
of  elevating  her  arbitrary  signs  to  the  dignity  of  natural 
signs,  namely,  Metaphor.  For  as  the  force  of  natural 
signs  consists  in  their  resemblance  to  the  things  which 
they  represent,  so  Poetry,  instead  of  this  resemblance 
which  she  has  not,  introduces  another  resemblance  which 
the  designated  thing  has  with  another  thing,  the  idea 
of  which  can  be  more  easily  and  more  vividly  awakened 
in  us. 

To  this  category  of  employment  of  metaphors  similes 

Y 


322 


LAOCOON 


also  belong.  For  a simile  is  in  reality  nothing  more  than 
an  extended  metaphor,  or,  in  other  words,  a metaphor  is 
nothing  more  than  a contracted  simile.  The  impossi- 
bility in  which  Painting  finds  herself  of  employing  this 
means,  gives  a great  advantage  to  Poetry,  inasmuch  as 
she  possesses  a kind  of  signs  which  have  the  force  of 
natural  signs,  though  she  is  obliged  to  express  them 
through  arbitrary  signs. 

Not  every  use  of  arbitrary,  successive,  audible  signs  is 
poetry.  Why  should  every  use  of  natural,  successive, 
visible  signs  be  painting,  seeing  that  Painting  is  recognised 
as  the  sister  of  Poetry  ? 

As  there  is  a use  of  words  which  has  not  illusion  for 
its  proper  object,  which  seeks  rather  to  inform  than  to 
please,  rather  to  make  itself  intelligible  than  to  carry 
you  along  with  it ; that  is,  as  language  has  its  prose,  so 
must  Painting  have  it  also. 

There  are  poetical  and  prosaic  painters. 

Prosaic  painters  are  those  which  do  not  paint  the 
objects  they  imitate  in  their  natural  relation  with  their 
signs. 

(1.)  Their  signs  are  co-existent  in  space;  those  who 
paint  signs  which  are  successive  in  time. 

(2. ) Their  signs  are  natural ; those  who  mingle  them 
with  arbitrary  signs,  the  allegorists. 

(3. ) Their  signs  are  visible  ; those  who  will  not  represent 
the  visible  through  the  visible,  but  represent  what  is 
addressed  to  the  ear  or  the  objects  of  other  senses  : illus- 
tration, The  Enraged  Musician  of  Hogarth. 

Painting,  we  say,  makes  use  of  natural  signs.  This  is 
true,  in  general.  Only  you  must  not  represent  that  she 
makes  use  of  no  arbitrary  signs.  We  will  speak  of  this 
in  another  place. 

And  in  the  next  place  we  should  observe  that  her 
natural  signs  in  certain  circumstances  cease  altogether 
to  be  so. 

I mean  to  say  this  : Of  these  natural  signs  the  principal 
are  lines,  and  figures  composed  from  them.  Now,  it  is 
not  enough  that  these  lines  should  have  the  same  rela- 
tions with  each  other  which  they  have  in  Nature ; each 
one  of  them  must  have  the  same,  and  not  merely  a 
reduced,  dimension  which  they  have  in  Nature,  or  which 


APPENDIX  323 

they  would  have  from  that  point  of  view  in  which  the 
painting  should  be  regarded. 

The  painter,  moreover,  who  wishes  to  employ  perfectly 
natural  signs  must  paint  objects  as  large  as  life  or  not 
much  less  than  as  large.  The  painter  who  remains  far 
below  this  standard,  who  paints  little  cabinet  pieces, — 
the  miniature  painter  may  indeed  be  in  this  line  a great 
artist : only  he  must  not  desire  that  his  w’orks  should 
have  the  truth  or  produce  the  effect  which  the  works  of 
the  other  artist  have  and  produce. 

A human  figure  of  half  a foot  or  an  inch  is  indeed  the 
image  of  a man,  but  it  is  in  some  sort  a symbolical  image. 
It  makes  me  more  conscious  of  the  sign  than  of  the  thing 
signified.  My  imagination  must  first  elevate  to  its  real 
size  the  reduced  figure,  and  this  intellectual  operation, 
however  rapid  and  easy,  always  prevents  the  intuition  of 
the  thing  signified  from  following  immediately  the 
intuition  of  the  sign. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  ‘the  dimensions  of  visible 
things,  so  far  as  they  are  perceived  by  us,  are  variable  ; 
they  depend  upon  distance,  and  there  are  distances  at 
which  the  human  figure  appears  only  half  a foot  or  an 
inch  high,  and  therefore  we  have  but  to  suppose  that  this 
reduced  figure  was  taken  from  a distance  in  order  that 
these  signs  may  appear  perfectly  natural  ’. 

But  I answer  : At  that  distance  at  which  a human 
figure  appears  to  be  only  of  the  size  of  half  a foot  or  of  an 
inch,  it  appears  indistinctly  ; but  it  is  not  so  that  we  see 
reduced  figures  in  the  foreground  of  small  pictures,  and 
the  distinctness  of  their  parts  contradicts  the  idea  of 
distance,  but  forcibly  reminds  us  that  the  figures  are 
reduced  and  not  taken  from  a distance. 

In  the  next  place,  it  is  well  known  how  much  the 
grandeur  of  dimensions  contributes  to  the  sublime.  This 
sublime  is  entirely  lost  by  the  process  of  reduction  in 
pictures.  The  lofty  towers,  the  sternest  and  rudest 
precipices,  the  overhanging  cliffs,  will  not  cause  a shadow 
of  the  terror  and  giddiness  which  they  produce  in  nature, 
and  which  in  some  degree  is  also  produced  in  Poetry. 
What  a picture  that  is  in  Shakspere  when  Edgar  leads 
Gloster  to  the  outermost  edge  of  the  cliff,  from  which  he 
wishes  to  throw  himself  down.* 


King  Lear,  iv,  5. 


324 


LAOCOON 


Come  on,  sir  ! 

Here ’s  the  place  ; stand  still.  How  fearful 
And  dizzy  ’tis  to  cast  one’s  eyes  so  low. 

The  crows  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 

Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles.  Half-way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ; dreadful  trade  ! 

Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head  : 

The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 
Appear  like  mice  ; and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminish’d  to  her  cock  ; her  cock  a buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight.  The  murmuring  surge 
That  on  the  unnumber’d  idle  pebbles  chafes 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.  I’ll  look  no  more, 

Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight  ! 

Topple  down  headlong. 

Compare  with  this  passage  of  Shakspere  the  passage  in 
Milton  (bk.  vii,  v.  210),  where  the  Son  of  God  looks  down 
into  the  bottomless  abyss  of  chaos.  The  depth  in  this 
passage  is  much  grander,  and  yet  the  description  of  it  ! 
produces  no  effect,  because  there  is  nothing  to  render  us 
sensible  of  it : the  effect  which  Shakspere  so  excellently 
produced  by  means  of  the  gradual  diminution  of  the 
objects. 

K.  Reduced  dimensions  weaken  the  effect  in  Painting. 

A beautiful  image  in  miniature  cannot  possibly  excite  ; 
the  same  pleasure  which  the  image  in  its  true  dimensions 
would  excite.  But  in  cases  where  the  dimensions  cannot  ! 
be  preserved,  the  spectator  will  at  least  expect  to  be 
placed  in  a position  to  judge  of  them  from  a comparison 
with  certain  recognised  and  determined  dimensions. 

The  best  known  and  best  determined  standard  of 
dimensions  is  the  human  figure.  Therefore  almost  all 
measures  of  length  are  taken  from  the  human  figure  or 
particular  parts  of  it : a yard,  a foot,  arm’s  length,  a step, 
an  ell,  man’s  height,  &c. 

So  I believe  that  the  human  figures  of  the  landscape 
painter,  besides  the  effect  of  introducing  a higher  life  into 
his  picture,  render  also  the  important  service  of  furnishing 
a standard  whereby  to  measure  all  other  objects,  and 
their  distances  from  each  other. 

Deprived  of  this  standard,  he  is  obliged  to  supply  the  j 
want  of  a certain  measure  by  the  introduction  of  other 
things  which  man  employs  for  his  use  or  convenience,  and 
for  this  object  has  proportioned  to  his  size — a house,  a 
hedge,  a bridge,  a path,  can  do  this  office,  &c. 

And  if  the  artist  wishes  to  paint  a wholly  uncultivated  j 


APPENDIX 


325 


desert,  a forlorn  region  without  men,  or  the  trace  of  men, 
he  must  at  least  introduce  wild  beasts  of  a known  size, 
and  from  the  proportion  they  bear  to  the  other  objects 
must  form  a judgment  as  to  their  proper  dimensions. 

The  want  of  an  ascertained  and  known  standard  may 
have  an  evil  effect  in  historical  pictures  as  well  as  in 
landscapes.  ‘The  poetical  invention’,  says  Herr  von 
Hagedorn,*  ‘ as  soon  as  it  is  given  up  to  mere  imagination 
suffers  dwarfs  and  giants  side  by  side  : but  the  pictorial 
invention  is  not  so  good-natured  and  flexible’.  He  illus- 
trates his  meaning  by  a famous  picture  of  antiquity,  the 
sleeping  Cyclops  of  Timanthes.  In  order  to  express  the 
enormous  size  of  this  giant,  the  artist  has  caused  a satyr 
close  to  him  to  measure  his  thumb  with  a thyrsus.  Herr 
von  Hagedorn  thinks  the  device  ingenious,  but  that  in  a 
pictorial  combination  it  is  at  variance  with  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  the  art  of  grouping,  with  our  modern  ideas  of 
chiaro  oscuro , and  that  it  is  injurious  to  the  natural  equil- 
ibrium of  the  picture.  We  can  rely  upon  the  word  of 
Herr  von  Hagedorn  that  this  object  has  all  the  incon- 
veniences which  he  has  noticed.  But  these  are  only 
inconveniences  to  the  eye  of  a practised  connoisseur  : I 
add  another,  which  is  taken  from  my  former  remarks  on 
dimensions,  which  are  obvious  to  every  eye,  and  especially 
to  the  unpractised  eye. 

When  the  poet  speaks  of  the  giant  and  the  dwarf,  I 
know  from  his  language  that  he  is  speaking  of  the  two 
extrema  to  which  the  human  figure  can  vary  from  its 
usual  size.  But  when  the  painter  combines  a great  and 
a little  figure,  how  do  I know  that  these  are  the  two 
extrema  ? It  is  competent  to  me  to  take  the  little  or  the 
great  figure  as  the  standard  of  ordinary  size.  If  I take 
the  little  figure  for  it,  then  the  great  one  becomes  a 
Colossus ; if  I take  the  great  one  for  it  the  little  one 
becomes  a Lilliputian.  In  the  one  case  I can  imagine  a 
yet  greater,  in  the  other  case  a yet  smaller  standard.  It, 
moreover,  remains  undecided  whether  the  painter  meant 
to  represent  a dwarf  ora  giant,  or  both  : Julio  Romano  is 
not  the  only  painter  who  has  imitated  the  device  of 
Timanthes.  f Francis  FlorisJ  has  also  employed  it  in  his 

* Von  der  Mahlerey,  p.  169.  t Richardson,  i.  p.  84. 

J Francis  Floris  was  born  at  Antwerp  in  1520  ; lie  died  in  1570.  His 
works  were  at  one  time  held  in  great  esteem. 


326 


LAOCOON 


picture  of  Hercules  among  the  Pigmies,  which  Herr  Cock 
has  engraven  in  1563.  I doubt  whether  he  has  been  very 
happy  in  his  imitation,  inasmuch  as  he  has  represented 
the  Pigmies,  not  as  misshapen  and  hump-backed  dwarfs, 
but  as  little  men  formed  in  due  proportions,  so  that  I 
should  not  know  whether  they  are  not  men  of  ordinary 
size,  and  the  Hercules  sleeping  under  the  oak  a giant,  did 
I not  recognise  Hercules  by  his  club  and  lion’s  skin,  and 
did  I not  know  that  antiquity  had  represented  Hercules 
as  a man  of  great  stature  indeed,  but  not  as  a monster. 
Timanthes  makes  a Satyr  measure  with  a thyrsus  the 
thumb  of  the  Cyclops  ; Floris  makes  a Pigmy  measure 
the  footsteps  of  Hercules  with  a staff.  It  is  true  that  the 
Hercules  is  in  the  contemplation  of  the  Pigmy  as  good  a 
giant  as  the  Cyclops  in  the  contemplation  of  the  Satyr. 
Nevertheless,  the  like  measurement  does  not  produce  the 
like  effect.  The  Satyrs  might  be  recognised  by  their 
form,  and  their  size  was  the  ordinary  human  stature. 
When  they  measure  the  thumb  of  the  Cyclops  they  make 
me  clearly  understand  how  much  the  greater  the  Cyclops 
is  than  the  Satyr.  So  it  is  with  the  Pigmies ; the 
measuring  by  the  Pigmies  awakens  an  idea  of  the  great 
size  of  Hercules,  but  the  question  is  not  here  as  to  the 
grandeur  of  Hercules,  but  as  to  the  littleness  of  the 
Pigmies,  and  this  idea  Floris  has  represented  in  the 
most  vivid  manner.  But  this  could  not  well  be  other- 
wise done  than  by  giving  the  dwarfs,  besides  their 
littleness,  other  qualities  which  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
associating  with  them ; as  for  instance,  deformity  or  the 
disproportioned  relation  of  their  breadth  to  their  length. 
He  should  have  made  them  more  like  to  the  figures  in 
convex  or  concave  mirrors  with  which  Aristotle  compares 
them. *  * 

L.  One  of  the  most  perspective  similes  is  that  in  which 
Homer  likens  the  shield  of  Achilles,  or  rather  the  gleam- 
ing of  it,  with  the  gleaming  of  fire  which  gives  its  light 
from  a solitary  height  to  the  sea-faring  man  caught  in  a 
storm.  Yet  here  th e places  rather  than  the  successions  of 
time  are  placed  one  after  the  other 


Jerome  Cock,  or  Kock,  was  a painter  and  engraver  at  Antwerp  ; he 
died  about  1570.  R.  P. 

* Aristoteles  Probl.  sect.  x.  according  to  the  emendation  of  Vossius  ad 
Pompon.  Melam.  lib.  iii.  c.  8.  p.  587. 


APPENDIX 


327 


Aitrap  €7T€itcc  (ratios  /aey a re  arifiapov  re 
EtAeTO,  rod  5’  arravevde  <reActs  7 eVer5,  Tjvre 
cQ,s  8’  6r 5 cir  e/c  tt ovroio  ffeAas  vavrrjcri  cpaverir] 

K aio/ievoio  tt vp6s‘  rb  8e  naierai  v\J/dd’  opercpiv , 

'ZraQfjuQ  sv  oioirbAcp'  robs  8’  ovk  edeA ovras  cteAAat 
IT(Wop  €7 r5  IxOvoevra  <pi\ccu  airauevOe  (pepovcru '/.* 

The  gleaming  of  the  shield,  the  foreground  ; the  gleam- 
ing which  the  sailors  see,  the  second  ; the  fire  on  the 
heights  which  causes  this  gleaming,  the  third  ; the  friends, 
from  wdiom  they  are  driven  away  far  over  the  sea,  the 
fourth. 

M.  ‘Pliny5,  says  Herr  Wink elmann,f  ‘tells  us  that  in 
the  reign  of  Nero  the  art  of  dasting  in  bronze  was  lost, 
and  he  invokes  the  colossal  statue  of  this  Emperor  by 
Zenodorus,  who,  notwithstanding  all  his  art,  failed  in 
this  work.  But  we  must  not  conclude  with  Donat  i and 
Nardini  that  this  statue  was  of  marble  \ 

It  is  certain  that  Donati  and  Nardini  misunderstood 
and  have  drawn  a false  conclusion  from  this  passage  of 
Pliny.  But  Herr  Winkelmann  also  cannot  have  ex- 
amined it  with  his  usual  acuteness  or  he  would  have 
expressed  himself  otherwise.  Did  Zenodorus  not  succeed 
in  this  statue  ? Where  does  Pliny  say  so  ? Bather  does 
he  report  of  him  tnat  he  was  second  to  none  in  the  exercise 
of  his  art,  that  his  work  bore  an  uncommon  resemblance, 
that  he  had  already  given  proofs  of  his  skill  in  the  casting 
of  a colossal  Mercury.  And  the  eagerness  of  succeeding 
Emperors  to  leave  Nero  no  share  in  the  honours  of  this 
statue,  to  dedicate  it  to  the  Sun,  to  change  the  head  of 
Nero  for  a head  of  their  own,  the  incredible  pains  which 
they  took  to  carry  it  away  and  put  it  up  in  some  other 
place  : what  conclusion  can  we  draw  from  all  this  but  that 
it  must  have  been  a work  of  very  peculiar  merit  ? Pliny 
says  it  is  true  : ea  statua  indicavit  interiisse  fundendi  aeris 
scientiam.  But  these  are  the  very  words  which  have 
* Iliad , T 373,  etc. 

And  as  from  sea  sailors  discern  a harmful  fire,  let  run 
By  herdsmen’s  faults,  till  all  their  stall  Hies  up  in  wrastling  flame, 
Which  being  on  hills  is  seen  far  off,  but  being  alone,  none  came 
To  give  it  quench  ; at  shore  no  neighbours,  and  at  sea  their  friends 
Driven  off  with  tempests ; such  a fire  from  his  bright  shield  extends 
His  ominous  radiance  ; and  in  heaven  impressed  his  fervent  blaze. 

Chapman.  R.  P. 

t In  his  Geschichte  der  Kunst. 


328 


LAOCOON 


been  misinterpreted.  It  has  been  supposed  that  they 
reveal  the  loss  of  the  art  to  east  in  metal,  whereas  all 
they  assert  is  the  loss  of  the  art  to  give  to  this  metal  a cer- 
tain alloy  {temper atur am  aeris)  which  was  believed  to  have 
existed  in  the  old  works  of  art  of  this  kind.  Zenodorus 
was  wanting  in  a knowledge  of  the  chemical  mystery,  not 
in  plastic  skill.  And  really  this  chemical  mystery  consisted 
herein,  that  the  ancients  must  have  mixed  gold  and  silver 
with  the  copper  out  of  which  they  used  in  the  casting  of 
their  statues,  quondam  aes  confusum  auro  argentoque 
miscebatur .*  The  secret  was  entirely  lost,  and  in  the 
mingling  of  metals  which  the  artists  of  that  day  used, 
there  was  nothing  but  lead,  as  Pliny  himself  clearly 
explains.  + Now  let  the  whole  passage  be  read:  ‘ea 

statua  indicavit  interiisse  fundendi  aeris  scientiam,  cum 
et  Nero  largiri  aurum  argentumque  paratus  esset,  et 
Zenodorus  scientia  fingendi  caelandique  nulli  veterum 
postponeretur  J 

In  vain  did  the  squandering  Nero  bestow  his  silver  and 
gold  : the  artist  could  not  use  it : he  understood  only  a 
very  inferior  alloy : but  the  inferior  metal  which  he  em- 
ployed had  no  influence  on  his  art,  in  which  he  was  equal 
to  any  ancient  artist : Pliny  says  so  : Pliny  had  seen  his 
work,  we  must  believe  him. 

‘ The  beautiful  Seneca  in  bronze’,  says  Herr  Winkel- 
mann  in  a later  work,§  c which  has  been  recently  dis- 
covered in  Herculaneum,  is  sufficient  alone  to  bear  testi- 
mony against  Pliny,  who  declares,  that  in  the  reign  of 
Nero  nobody  knew  how  to  cast  in  bronze  \ Whom  can  we 
more  truly  trust  as  to  the  beauty  of  this  work  than  Herr 
Winkelmann  ? But,  as  I have  shown,  he  is  fighting  with 
a shadow ; Pliny  does  not  say  what  he  makes  him  say  ; I 
know  the  passage  upon  which  Herr  Winkelmann  relies  : 
namely,  where  Pliny  speaks  of  the  costly  alloy  of  the  old 
bronze,  and  adds,  ‘ et  tamen  ars  pretiosior  erat : nunc 
incertum  est  pejor  haec  sit  an  materia  But  he  is 
speaking  comparatively,  and  must  be  understood  to  be 
speaking  of  most  but  not  of  all  the  works  of  his  time  : 
because  he  himself  gives  very  different  testimony  about 
Zenodorus,  and  undoubtedly  the  artist  of  the  Seneca, 
which  has  been  referred  to,  deserved  it. 

* Plin.  lib.  xxxiv.  cap.  7.  t L.  xxxiv.  J L.  xxxiv. 

§ Nachrichten  von  den  neuesten  Herculanischen  Entdeclcungen  s.  35. 


APPENDIX 


329 


N. *  Some  thoughts  on  the  continuation  of  my  Laocoon  : 
I maintain  that  the  true  end  of  an  art  can  only  be  that 
for  which  it  is  peculiarly  and  alone  fit,  and  not  that 
which  other  arts  can  attain  as  well  if  not  better  than  it. 
I find  in  Plutarch  a comparison  which  well  illustrates 
this  position.  4 Who  says  he  (de  Audit,  p.  43,  ed.  Xyl.), 

4 will  split  wood  with  a key  and  open  a door  with  an  axe, 
does  not  so  much  destroy  his  instruments,  as  deprive 
himself  of  the  use  of  both’. 

According  to  Petit,  this  work  of  art  must  necessarily 
have  been  later  than  Virgil’s  description  of  it : for  he 
insists  that  the  whole  episode  of  the  Laocoon  is  an 
invention  of  Virgil’s  (Miscell.  Observ.  lib.  iv.  cap.  xiii.  p. 
294).  4Tametsi  Servius  revera  hoc  Laocoonti  accidisse 
ex  Euphorione  refert : quod  piaculum  contraxisset  co- 
eundo  cum  uxore  ante  simulacrum  numinis.  Verosimilius 
tamen  est,  a Marone  hoc  totum  fuisse  inventum,  ac  pro 
machina  inductum  qua  dignum  vindice  nodum  explicaret, 
quomodo  videlicet  ausi  sint  Trojani  tarn  enormem  et 
concavam  simulacri  compagem  transferre  in  urbem,  etc.’ 
But  it  is  easy  to  overthrow  this  opinion  of  Petit : inas- 
much as  the  traces  of  the  same  history  of  Laocoon  in 
earlier  and  in  Greek  writers  are  both  many  and  clear. 

O.  (Cap.  xxx.)  Herr  Winkelmann  has  explained  him- 
self more  definitely  in  his  history  of  Art.  He  also 
acknowledges  that  repose  is  a consequence  of  beauty. 

Necessity  of  expressing  yourself  as  precisely  as  possible 
upon  this  kind  of  thing.  A false  ground  is  worse  than 
no  ground. 

(xxxi.)  Herr  Winkelmann  appears  to  have  derived  this 
highest  law  of  beauty  entirely  from  the  ancient  works  of 
Art.  But  one  may  arrive  with  equal  certainty  at  the 
same  conclusion  from  principles  of  reason.  For  as  the 
plastic  arts  are  alone  sufficient  to  produce  the  form  of 
beauty  : as  they  need  no  help  from  any  other  Art  for  this 
purpose  : as  other  arts  are  incapable  in  this  respect : so  it 
is  quite  indisputable  that  this  beauty  is  their  peculiar  and 
proper  end. 

(xxxn.)  But  corporeal  beauty  requires  more  than 
beauty  of  form.  It  requires  beauty  of  colour  and  beauty 
of  expression. 


This  section  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  papers  of  Herr  Friedland. 


330 


LAOCOON 


The  difference  in  respect  to  beauty  of  colours  between 
carnation  and  colouring.  Carnation  is  the  colouring  of 
such  objects  as  have  a distinct  beauty  of  form,  and 
especially  of  the  human  body.  Colouring  is  especially 
the  use  of  local  colours. 

Difference  with  respect  to  matter  of  expression  between 
the  transitory  and  the  permanent.  The  first  is  violent, 
and  consequently  not  beautiful.  The  second  is  the  con- 
sequence of  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  first,  not  only 
does  it  ally  itself  with  beauty,  but  it  gives  more  variety 
to  the  beauty. 

(xxxiii.)  Ideal  of  corporeal  beauty.  What  is  it?  It 
consists  especially  in  the  ideal  of  form:  but  also  in  the 
ideal  of  carnation  and  permanent  expression. 

The  mere  colouring  and  the  transitory  expression  have 
no  ideal : because  nature  herself  has  given  no  determined 
character  to  them. 

(xxxiv.)  The  transporting  of  the  pictorial  ideal  into 
poetry  is  false.  In  the  former  is  an  ideal  of  bodies,  in  the 
latter  an  ideal  of  actions.  Dryden  in  his  Preface  to 
Fresnoy.  Bacon  in  Lowth. 

(xxxv. ) Still  more  extravagant  it  would  be  to  expect 
and  require  from  the  poet  not  only  perfect  moral  beings, 
but  also  perfectly  beautiful  corporeal  beings.  Neverthe- 
less it  is  what  Herr  Winkelmann  does  in  his  criticism  on 
Milton  ( Geschichte  der  Kunst , p.  28).  Winkelmann  seems 
to  have  a slight  acquaintance  with  Milton,  otherwise  he 
would  know,  what  has  been  long  ago  remarked,  that  he 
alone  knew  how  to  paint  the  devil  without  having 
recourse  to  physical  ugliness. 

Some  such  refined  form  of  devilish  ugliness,  Guido  had, 
perhaps,  in  his  head  (v.  Dryden’s  Preface  to  the  Art  of 
Painting , p.  9).  But  neither  he  nor  any  one  else  has 
executed  the  idea.  But  Milton’s  ugly  forms,  such  as  sin 
and  death,  do  not  belong  to  his  principal  action,  but  only 
serve  to  fill  up  his  episodes. 

Milton’s  conception  of  separating  in  the  devil  the 
tormentor  from  the  tormented,  which  in  vulgar  opinion 
are  combined. 

(xxxvi.)  But  very  few  pictures  can  be  painted  from 
the  principal  action  of  Milton’s  Poem.  True  ; but  it 
does  not  follow  that  they  could  not  be  painted  by 
Milton. 


APPENDIX 


331 


Poetry  paints  by  a single  trait : Painting  must  add  all 
the  rest.  In  the  former  there  may  be  something  very 
picturesque  which  in  the  latter  cannot  be  executed. 

(xxxvn.)  Consequently  it  is  not  on  account  of  the 
preeminent  genius  of  Homer  that  everything  with  him 
is  capable  of  being  painted  : but  this  is  solely  on  account 
of  his  choice  of  subject. 

Proof  of  this  : — First  Proof — from  the  various  invisible 
objects  which  Homer  has  treated  as  unpicturesquely  as 
Milton — example,  Discord. 

(xxxviii.)  Second  Proof — from  the  visible  objects 
which  Milton  has  admirably  treated, — Love  in  Paradise 
— the  simplicity  and  poverty  of  the  Painter  on  this 
subject.  On  the  contrary,  the  riches  of  Milton. 

(xxxix.)  Strength  of  Milton  in  successive  pictures, — 
examples  of  this  in  all  the  books  of  Paradise  Lost . 

(xl.)  Milton’s  painting  of  individual  sensible  objects. 
In  this  he  would  have  surpassed  Homer,  if  we  had  not 
already  demonstrated  that  it  does  not  belong  to  Poetry. 

My  opinion  that  this  painting  is  a consequence  of  his 
blindness.  Traces  of  this  blindness  in  several  distinct 
passages.  Proof  conversely  that  Homer  was  not  blind. 

(xli.  ) Fresh  confirmation  that  Homer  only  permitted 
himself  to  use  successive  pictures,  by  contradicting  cer- 
tain objections  taken  from  his  description  of  Pallastes  in 
the  Iliad.  He  wished  only  to  awaken  the  idea  of  great- 
ness,— description  of  the  garden  of  Alcinous,  even  in 
this  he  does  not  describe  as  beautiful  objects  which 
on  a sudden  appear  to  the  eye,  while  in  nature  they 
are  not  so. 

(xlii.  ) In  Ovid  the  successive  pictures  are  most  fre- 
quent and  most  beautiful : and  precisely  for  this  reason, 
because  they  have  not  been  painted  and  cannot  be 
painted. 

(xliii.  ) Among  pictures  of  action  there  is  a kind  in 
which  the  action  does  not  gradually  express  itself  in  a 
single  body,  but  is  distributed  in  various  successive 
bodies.  These  I call  collective  actions,  and  they  are 
those  which  are  common  to  Painting  and  Poetry,  though 
with  different  limitations. 

(xliv.  ) As  the  poet  paints  bodies  only  indicatively  by 
motion — so  he  endeavours  to  detach  the  visible  properties 
of  bodies  in  their  motion — as  for  instance,  great  size. 


332 


LAOCOON 


Example,  from  the  height  of  a tree — from  the  breadth  of 
a pyramid — from  the  great  size  of  a serpent. 

(xlv.  ) Of  motion  in  painting : why  only  men  and  no 
beasts  are  susceptible  of  it  ? 

(xlvi,  ) Of  speed  : and  the  various  ways  the  poet  has 
of  expressing  it. 

The  passage  in  Milton,  bk.  x,  v.  90.  The  general 
reflection  on  the  speed  of  the  Gods  has  by  no  means  the 
effect  that  the  picture,  which  Homer  would  in  one  way  or 
the  other  have  made  of  it  for  us,  would  have  had.  Per- 
haps he  would  have  said  instead  of  4 down  he  descended 
straight 5 * (er  stieg  sogleich  herab),  he  had  descended  (er 
war  herabgestiegen). 

* and  all  the  coast  in  prospect  lay. 

Down  he  descended  straight : the  speed  of  Gods 

Time  counts  not  tho’  with  swiftest  minutes  wing’d.  Par.  Lost , x. 


THE  END 


INDEX 


OF 

AUTHORS  AND  ARTISTS  MENTIONED 

A. 


Abbt,  5,  276. 

Addison,  46,  99,  236. 

Aelian,  47. 

Aesop,  176,  237-8. 

Agesander,  192,  193,  196,  197,  199,  200, 
223,  286. 

Alboni,  Cardinal,  199. 

Allatius,  Leo,  31. 

Anacreon,  163, 167. 

Angelo,  Michael,  242,  298. 

Antiochus  (Anthologia),  212. 

Antipater,  312. 

Apelles,  43,  56,  171, 172,  201,  202,  225,273, 
274. 

Aphrodisius  Trallianus,  194. 
Apollodorus,  192,  199,  285. 

Apollonius,  200,  219,  281. 

Athanodorus,  see  Athenodorus. 
Athenaeus,  270,  289. 

Athenodorus,  192, 193,  196, 197,  199,  200, 
201,  202,  223,  286. 

Arcesilaus,  193. 

Archelaus,  202. 

Aretinus,  224. 

Ariosto,  3, 159,160, 161, 167. 

Aristides,  Quintilian,  35. 

Aristophanes,  185,  213. 

Aristotle,  12,  35,  38,  56, 176, 180,  213,222, 
268,  270,  277,  280,  294,  303,  314,  326. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  40. 

Artemon,  195. 

Arundel  and  Surrey,  Earl  of,  12. 
Augustine,  St,  35. 

Aulus  Gellius,  272. 

B. 

Bacon,  23,  35,  330. 

Bartolinus,  212. 

Baumgarten,  57. 

Beasley,  Mr,  29. 

Beattie,  39. 

Beaumont,  189,  266. 

Beger,  315. 

Begerus,  240. 

Bellori,  12,  215,  217. 

Bembo,  233. 

Berengarius,  2. 

Boccaccio,  4. 

Boden,  213. 

Bodmer,  3. 

Boivin,  152,  154, 155,  267. 

Bos,  Abbe  Du,  15,  16,  35,  37,  260, 

263. 


Breitinger,  39, 260. 

Britannicus,  236. 

Brumoy,  211. 

Buchheim,  4,  41. 

Burke,  E.,  24. 

Burmann,  296. 

C. 

Callimachus,  188. 

Camoens,  49. 

Cange,  Du,  269. 

Caracci,  Agostino,  262. 

,,  Annibale,  298. 

Cary,  284. 

Catullus,  208,  243. 

Caylus,  Count,  9, 14, 19, 114, 117. 119,121, 
123, 126,  127,  130,  132,  169, 170,  171,  182, 
248,  277,  290,  292,  302,  311. 

Cebes,  300. 

Chapman,  43,  44,  255,  258,  259  '271,  -273, 
275,  289,  311,  312. 

Chateaubrun,  77,  78,  212. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  185,  280. 

Chrysippus,  257. 

Cibber,  295. 

Cicero,  10,  35,  48,  56,  81,  217,  250/252. 269 
Clarke,  253,  292. 

Claude,  43. 

Cleomenes,  202. 

Cleyn,  89. 

Cock,  Herr,  326,  330. 

Colman,  280. 

Columbus,  44. 

Copleston.  Bp.,  27,  42,  258,  260. 

Coppel,  299. 

Corneille,  31. 

Correggio,  7. 

Cowper,  252,  273. 

Crabbe,  256. 

Craterus,  194,  195,  286. 

Ctesias,  82, 222. 

D. 

Dacier,  Mme,  62,  148, 152,  266,  267,  314. 
Daedalus,  316. 

Dante.  189,  239,  279,  283,  298. 

Danzel,  l,  3. 

Derby,  Lord,  273. 

Diodorus,  315,  316. 

Diogenes  Atheniensis,  194,  286. 
Dionysius,  10,  213,  263,  272,  280. 

Dolce,  160, 161,  270. 

Donati,  327. 

262,  Donatus,  88,  228,  229. 

Doni,  34. 

333 


334 


LAOCOON 


Dryden,  11,  12,  31,  35,  44,  47,  129,  215, 
21V,  226,  227,  229,  230,  255,  261,  266,  271, 
306,  313, 330. 

E. 

Edgeworth,  Miss,  4. 

Elton,  C.  A.,  280. 

Ernesti,  253. 

Euler,  294. 

Eumolpus,  225,  226. 

Euphorion,  10. 

Euripides,  47. 

Eustathius,  314. 

E. 

Eabricius,  Joannes  Albertus,  273. 
Ealconet,  216. 

Eletcher,  189,  266. 

Eloris,  Francis,  325,  326,  330. 

Fontaines,  De,  231. 

Eranklin,  220,  221. 

Eriedland,  Herr,  329. 

Eresnoy,  Du,  12,  230,  306,  330. 
Erothingham,  Miss,  29. 

Fuseli,  6,  8,  25,  27,  218,  287,  288. 


G. 

Gainsborough,  14. 

Garrick,  84,  222. 

Garth,  215. 

Gellius,  see  Aulus. 

Gentili,  Scipio,  312. 

Gerard,  294. 

Gervinus,  2,  4,  31,  39,  52. 

Gesner,  57. 

Ghezzi,  65,  214. 

Gifford,  46,  235,  237, 288. 

Ginguene,  36. 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  273. 

Goedeke,  2, 3,  5,  21,  31. 

Goethe,  4,  8,  21,  29,  234. 

Gostwick,  1. 

Gottsched,  3. 

Grangaeus,  209. 

Gray,  212. 

Gregory  the  Great,  41. 

Grenville,  Lord,  273. 

Grotius,  12. 

Gruter,  233. 

Guido,  330. 

Gurauer,  2,  10, 16,  23,  32,  33,  40,  277,  285, 
288,  289. 

H. 

Hagedorn,  Herr  Von,  3,  325. 

Hallam,  37,  233,  234,  258. 

Haller,  Von,  3,  259. 

Hamilton,  Sir  W.,  17,  47,  259,  279. 
Handel,  38. 

Hardouin,  195,  285. 

Harris,  16,  35,  37,  218,  232,  250. 

Harrison,  1. 

Haweis,  Rev.  H.  R.,  34. 

Heliodorus,  289,  314. 

Herder,  8,  33,  40,  284. 

Hermolaus,  195, 196. 


Herodotus,  209,  254,  259,  315. 

Hesiod,  186. 

Heyne,  10,  234. 

Hogarth,  W.,  14, 173,  262,  275,  322. 

Homer,  8,  19,  32,  33,  42,  44,  45,  61,  114, 
117,  119,  120,  121,  122,  124,  126,  127,  129, 
132,  133,  134, 135,  136, 137, 138,  139,  145, 
147,  149,  150,  151,  152,  153,  154,  155,  156, 
157,  158,  159, 162,  165,  171,  172,  173,  174, 
175,  182,  187,  200,  209,  249,  250,  253,  254, 
263,  264,  267,  268,  273,  274,  277,  289,  290, 
291,  292,  293,  294,  301,  302,  308,  312. 

Hood,  45. 

Hoole,  270. 

Horace,  12,  19,  37,  56,  ]42,  243,  246,  248, 
274. 

Hugendorm,  Von,  231. 

Humboldt,  20,  41,  47,  49. 

Huysen,  Van,  142. 

Hyginus,  10. 

J. 

J ohn  of  Bologna,  42. 

Johnson,  Dr,  22,  24. 

Junius,  12,  65,  206,  207,  208,  213. 

Justinus  Martyr,  214. 

Juvenal,  46,  99,  208,  235,  236,  237,  238. 

K. 

Kalliteles,  196. 

Kastners,  3. 

Kleist,  Von,  144,  261. 

Klopstock,  3. 

Klotz,  277. 


L. 

La  Motte,  292. 

Lee,  N.,  295. 

Leibnitz,  3,  268. 

Lesches,  224. 

Lewes,  21,  28. 

Liscow,  3. 

Longinus,  121,  186,  206,  207,  257,  280, 288 
Lowth,  330. 

Lubin,  236. 

Lucian,  42,  164,  250,  271. 

Lucretius,  37,  45,  48, 101,  239. 
Lycophron  10,  86,  224. 

Lysimachus,  10. 

Lysippus,  193,  201,  236. 


M. 

Macaulay,  Lord,  29. 

Mackintosh,  41. 

Macrobius,  85,  224,  264. 

Maffei,  192, 193,  231,  249,  291. 
Manasses,  Constantine,  5, 158,  269. 
Manzoni,  31. 

Maratti,  Carlo,  296. 

Marliani,  85,  86,  87,  223. 
Marmontel,  261. 

Marsham,  315. 

Martial,  240. 

Martini,  35. 

Masaccio,  235. 

Mason,  12. 


INDEX 


335 


Mazzuoli,  Francesco,  145,  262. 
Mendelssohn,  4,  5,  176,  265,  275,  276,  305, 
306,  307,  308. 

Mengs,  Raphael,  7, 16,  35, 146. 
Metrodorus,  59. 

Milton,U|j  8?  36,  40,  49, 127,  160,  256,  272, 
290,  300,  302,  303,  304,  324,  330,  331,  332. 
Montfaucon,  68,  85,  86,  87,  215,  216,  223, 
241. 

Muller,  288. 

Myron,  173. 


N. 

Nardini,  327. 

Nepos,  Cornelius,  204. 
Nicias,  201. 

Nicolai,  5,  275, 276,  277,  284. 


O. 

Oeser,  21. 

Onatas,  196. 

Opie,  John,  26, 27 

Ovid,  48,  48,  102,  108,  118,  166,  187,  188, 
215,  244,  331. 

P. 

Parmegiano,  see  Mazzuoli. 

Parrhasius,  209,  272,  286. 

Parthenius,  208,  294. 

Pasiteles,  193. 

Pasquilini,  173. 

Pausanias,  156,  193,  195,  197,  214,  243, 
245,  249,  268,  292. 

Pauson,  64,  213. 

Perrault,  152,  266. 

Petit,  329. 

Petrarch,  279. 

Petronius,  225,  227,  228,  292. 

Phidias,  43,  152,  172,  173,  194,  195,  231, 
232. 

Philippus,  219. 

Phillips,  Professor,  27,  29. 

Philostratus,  73,  219. 

Piles,  De,  230. 

Pilkington,  14, 262. 

Pindar,  34. 

Pisander,  85, 86. 

Plato,  35,  48,  280. 

Pliny,  9, 48,  69,  109, 118, 156,  171,  173, 192, 
193, 194,  195,  196,  197,  198,  199,  200,  201, 
209,  211,  213,  214,  216,  217,  218,  245,  251, 
267,  272, 273,  274,  285,  286,  289,  291,  296, 
327. 

Pliny  the  Younger,  279. 

Plutarch,  9,  12,  27,  211,  222,  246, 257,  272, 
275,  329. 

Pollio,  Asinius,  198. 

Polycletus,  192, 201, 202. 

Polydectes,  194,  195. 

Polydorus,  194, 196,  197, 199,  223,285,286. 
Polygnotus,  156,  213. 

Pope,  42,  144,  152,  155,  156,  176,  258,  268, 
273,  295,  313. 

Pordenonc,  189,  256. 

Posidonius,  193. 

Praxiteles,  194,  195,  294. 


Preigern,  Abraham,  240. 
Protogenes,  56, 118, 225,  250,  251. 
Pyreicus,  64. 

Pythagoras  Leontinus,  69,  173. 
Pythodectes,  195. 

Pythodorus,  194, 195,  286. 


Quadrio,  36. 

Quincey,  De,  22,  29,  218,  219,  223,  231, 
240,  264. 

Quintilian,  10,  35,  56,  217. 

Quintus  Calaber,  10,’  86,  177,  '224,  227, 
252,  253. 

Quixote,  Don,  30. 


Rabener,  3. 

Raffaello,  7,  117,  146,  229,  235,  294,  296, 
298,  299,  301. 

Resewitz,  5,  276. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  8,  12,  14,  24,  39, 
47,  216,  2i7,  218,  231,  234,  250,  262,  305. 
Richardson,  14,  94, 192,  231,  250,  251,  285, 
296,  297,  299,  302. 

Rigault,  236. 

Romano,  Julio,  325. 

Ross,  Mr,  29. 

Rubens,  298. 


S. 

Sacchi,  Andrea,  173. 

Sadolet,  11,  59,  95,  211,  232,  233,  234. 
Salmasius,  12. 

Salpion,  202. 

Sappho,  166. 

Scaliger,  152,  224,  266. 

Schiller,  8,  40,  277. 

Schlegel,  F.,  22. 

Scopas,  109, 194, 197. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  50,  51,  271. 

Seneca,  82. 

Servius,  198, 237,  263,  264. 

Shaftesbury,  22. 

Shakspere,  3,  16,  31,  33,  36,  40,  45,  49, 
178,  229,  260,  266,  281,  323. 

Simonides,  9, 12,  27, 56. 

Smith,  221. 

Smith,  Adam,  17. 

Smith,  W.,  224,  225,  242,  264. 

Socrates,  48. 

Sophocles,  8, 10,  33.  47,  59,  60,  63,  69,  76, 
81,  82,  83,  209,  217,  221,  222,  255,  268, 
294,  321. 

Sotheby,  273. 

Spanhoim,  214,  244. 

Spence, 9, 13, 19,99, 101,  102, 103,  108,  111, 
112,  205,  214,  215. 

Spenser,  41. 

Stahl*,  31.  33,  41. 

Statius,  103,  105,  238,  241,  246. 

Stephen,  223. 

Stewart,  214. 

Stosch,  Von,  203. 

Strougylion,  193. 


336 


LAOCOON 


T. 

Tacitus,  225. 

Tasso,  3,  312,  313. 

Tauriscus,  200,  209. 

Taylor,  J eremy,  4,  230,  242. 
Terentius,  276. 

Terrasson,  152,  266. 

Theocritus,  47. 

Theodoras,  207, 288. 

Thomson,  20,  41,  220,  292. 

Thornton,  280. 

Thucydides,  221. 

Tibullus,  100,  238. 

Timanthes,  67,  69,  325. 
Timarchides,  196. 

Timocles,  196. 

Timomachus,  72. 

Tintoretto,  295. 

Tiraboschi,  34,  270. 

Titian,  7, 16,  145,  161, 270,  297. 
Town,  Mr,  ^80. 

Twining,  Daniel,  37,  38,  42,  278. 

U. 

Usher,  Archbishop,  12. 

V. 

Valerius  Flaccus,  69,  99,  103,  105, 
240,  241, 282. 


Valerius  Maximus,  216,  272, 275. 
Vanderbourg,  22. 

Virgil,  10,  19,  43,  44,  48,  59,  60  , 74,  75,  85, 
86,  87,  90,  92,  93,  95,  96,  98, 101,  118, 143, 
149, 150,  151, 162,  187,  189,  191,  197,  223, 
224,  225,  227,  228,  231,  241,  245,  246,  249, 
260,  263,  264,  265,  266,  274,  290,  312,  313, 
329. 

Voltaire,  15. 

Vossius,  12,  326. 


W. 

Warburton,  261,  295. 

Webb,  16,  35. 

Wicherley,  176. 

Winkelmann,  3,  6,  7,  8,  21,  40,  59,  60, 157 
191,  192,  193, 194,  196, 197,  199,  200,  201, 
202,  203,  204,  205,  206,  207,  208,  209,  210, 
243,  244,  251,  268,  277,  284,  286,  290,  291, 
294,  302,  315,  316,  327,  328,  329. 

Wolff,  3. 

Wordsworth,  218. 

Woverius,  314. 


Z. 

235,  Zenodorus,  327,  328. 

Zeuxis,  169, 171,  225,  272,  292,  310,  311 


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